*«t  L fir 


8LSi!±3Bklia55V 


Trinity  College  Library 

Durham,  N.  C. 


OjNfaJ 


Rec’d.  c^-t.  \Qiia 


\T‘  • 


4 


« f 


f 

A 


X-* 


i 


I 

4. 


I 


I- 


It  i. 


The  Epic  of  the  Wheat 


THE  PIT 

A STORY  OF  CHICAGO 


FRANK  NORRIS 


d- 


^ 0 4 ^ ^ 


NEW  YORK 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  & CO. 
1905 


Copyright,  1902,  by 
CURTIS  PUBLISHING  CO- 


Copyright,  1903,  by 
DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  & CO. 


Published  February^  igo% 


Jlrfnltli  is  ^anfjattan  press, 
Ntia  gorft,  S.  S.  9. 


f / 3.  ? 

7] 

jO-  / ? / 2. 

/Jlr-.  7?  <X. 


/^LO-vv>(Hv 


DEDICATED  TO  MY  BEOTHEE 

Cljorles  Oilman  Worria 

# 

ESr  MEMOEY  OF  CEETAIN  LAMENTABLE  TALES  OF  THE 
BOUND  (DINING-EOOM)  TABLE  HEEOES ; OP  THE  EPIC  OP 
THE  PEWTEE  PLATOONS,  AND  THE  EOMANCE-CYCLE  OP 
« GASTON  LE  FOX,"  WHICH  WE  INVENTED,  MAINTAINED, 
AND  FOUND  MAEVELLOUS  AT  A TIME  WHEN  WE  BOTH 
WEEE  BOYS. 


D 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2017  with  funding  from 
Duke  University  Libraries 


https://archive.org/details/pit02norr 


|)rinct:pal  Cl)tiracters  in  tlje  Noti^I 


Curtis  Jadwin,  capitalist  and  speculator. 
Sheldon  Corthell,  an  artist. 

Landry  Court,  Jjroker’s  clerk. 

Samuel  Gretry,  a broker. 

Charles  Cressler,  a dealer  in  grain. 

Mrs.  Cressler,  his  wife. 

Laura  Dearborn,  proUgd  of  Mrs.  Cressler. 
Page  Dearborn,  her  sister. 

Mrs.  Emily  Wessels,  aunt  of  Laura  and  Page. 


The  Trilogy  of  The  Epic  of  the  Wheat  includes  the 
following  novels : 

The  Octopus,  a Story  of  California. 

The  Pit,  a Story  of  Chicago. 

The  Wolf,  a Story  of  Europe. 

These  novels,  while  forming  a series,  will  be  in  no  way 
connected  with  each  other  save  only  in  their  relation  to 
(i)  the  production,  (2)  the  distribution,  (3)  the  consump- 
tion of  American  wheat.  When  complete,  they  will  form 
the  story  of  a crop  of  wheat  from  the  time  of  its  sowing 
as  seed  in  California  to  the  time  of  its  consumption  as 
bread  in  a village  of  Western  Europe. 

The  first  novel,  “The  Octopus,”  deals  with  the  war  be- 
tween the  wheat  grower  and  the  Railroad  Trust;  the 
second,  “ The  Pit,”  is  the  fictitious  narrative  of  a 
“ deal  ” in  the  Chicago  wheat  pit ; while  the  third,  “ The 
Wolf,”  will  probably  have  for  its  pivotal  episode  the 
relieving  of  a famine  in  an  Old  World  community. 

The  author’s  most  sincere  thanks  for  assistance  ren- 
dered in  the  preparation  of  the  following  novel  are  due 
to  Mr.  G.  D.  Moulson  of  New  York,  whose  unwearied 
patience  and  untiring  kindness  helped  him  to  the  better 
understanding  of  the  technical  difficulties  of  a very 
complicated  subject.  And  more  especially  he  herewith 
acknowledges  his  unmeasured  obligation  and  gratitude 
to  Her  Who  Helped  the  Most  of  All. 

F.  N. 

New  York, 

June  4.  iQOi. 


• THE  PIT 


A STORY  OF  CHICAGO 


THE  PIT 


/ 


I ' 

At  eight  o’clock  in  the  inner  vestibule  of  the  Audi- 
torium Theatre  by  the  window  of  the  box  office,  Laura 
Dearborn,  her  younger  sister  Page,  and  their  aunt — 
Aunt  Wess’ — were  still  waiting  for  the  rest  of  the 
theatre-party  to  appear.  A great,  slow-moving  press 
of  men  and  women  in  evening  dress  filled  the  vestibule 
from  one  wall  to  another.  A confused  murmur  of  talk 
and  the  shuffling  of  many  feet  arose  on  all  sides, 
while  from  time  to  time,  when  the  outside  and  inside 
doors  of  the  entrance  chanced  to  be  open  simultane- 
ously, a sudden  draught  of  air  gushed  in,  damp, 
glacial,  and  edged  with  the  penetrating  keenness  of  a 
Chicago  evening  at  the  end  of  February. 

The  Italian  Grand  Opera  Company  gave  one  of  the 
most  popular  pieces  of  its  repertoire  on  that  particular 
night,  and  the  Cresslers  had  invited  the  two  sisters 
and  their  aunt  to  share  their  box  with  them.  It  had 
been  arranged  that  the  party  should  assemble  in  the 
Auditorium  vestibule  at  a quarter  of  eight;  but  by 
now  the  quarter  was  gone  and  the  Cresslers  still 
failed  to  arrive. 

“ I don’t  see,”  murmured  Laura  anxiously  for 
the  last  time,  “ what  can  be  keeping  them.  Are 
you  sure  Page  that  Mrs.  Cressler  meant  here — ^in- 
side?” 


4 


The  Pit 


She  was  a tall  young  girl  of  about  twenty-two  or 
three,  holding  herself  erect  and  with  fine  dignity.  Even 
beneath  the  opera  cloak  it  was  easy  to  infer  that  her 
neck  and  shoulders  were  beautiful.  Her  almost  ex- 
treme slenderness  was,  however,  her  characteristic ; 
the  curves  of  her  figure,  the  contour  of  her  shoulders, 
the  swell  of  hip  and  breast  were  all  low;  from  head 
to  foot  one  could  discover  no  pronounced  salience. 
Yet  there  was  no  trace,  no  suggestion  of  angularity. 
She  was  slender  as  a willow  shoot  is  slender — and 
equally  graceful,  equally  erect. 

Next  to  this  charming  tenuity,  perhaps  her  pale- 
ness was  her  most  noticeable  trait.  But  it  was  not  a 
paleness  of  lack  of  colour.  Laura  Dearborn’s  pallour 
was  in  itself  a colour.  It  was  a tint  rather  than  a 
shade,  like  ivory;  a warm  white,  blending  into  an  ex- 
quisite, delicate  brownness  towards  the  throat.  Set 
in  the  middle  of  this  paleness  of  brow  and  cheek,  her 
deep  brown  eyes  glowed  lambent  and  intense.  They 
were  not  large,  but  in  some  indefinable  way  they  were 
important.  It  was  very  natural  to  speak  of  her  eyes, 
and  in  speaking  to  her,  her  friends  always  found  that 
they  must  look  squarely  into  their  pupils.  And  all  this 
beauty  of  pallid  face  and  brown  eyes  was  crowned 
by,  and  sharply  contrasted  with,  the  intense  black- 
ness of  her  hair,  abundant,  thick,  extremely  heavy, 
continually  coruscating  with  sombre,  murky  reflec- 
tions, tragic,  in  a sense  vaguely  portentous, — the 
coiffure  of  a heroine  of  romance,  doomed  to  dark 
crises. 

On  this  occasion  at  the  side  of  the  topmost  coil, 
a white  aigrette  scintillated  and  trembled  with  her 
every  movement.  She  was  unquestionably  beautiful. 
Her  mouth  was  a little  large,  the  lips  firm  set,  and  one 
would  not  have  expected  that  she  would  smile  easily; 


A Story  of  Chicago  5 

in  fact,  the  general  expression  of  her  face  was  rather 
serious, 

“ Perhaps,”  continued  Laura,  “ they  would  look  for 
us  outside.”  But  Page  shook  her  head.  She  was  five 
years  younger  than  Laura,  just  turned  seventeen.  Her 
hair,  dressed  high  for  the  first  time  this  night,  was 
brown.  But  Page’s  beauty  was  no  less  marked  than 
her  sister’s.  The  seriousness  of  her  expression,  how- 
ever, was  more  noticeable.  At  times  it  amounted  to 
undeniable  gravity.  She  was  straight,  and  her  figure, 
all  immature  as  yet,  exhibited  hardly  any  softer  outlines 
than  that  of  a boy. 

“ No,  no,”  she  said,  in  answer  to  Laura's  question. 
“ They  would  come  in  here ; they  wouldn’t  wait  out- 
side— not  on  such  a cold  night  as  this.  Don’t  you  think 
so.  Aunt  Wess  ’ ? ” 

But  Mrs.  Wessels,  a lean,  middle-aged  little  lady, 
with  a flat,  pointed  nose,  had  no  suggestions  to  offer. 
She  disengaged  herself  from  any  responsibility  in  the 
situation  and,  while  waiting,  found  a vague  amuse- 
ment in  counting  the  number  of  people  who  filtered 
in  single  file  through  the  wicketwhere  the  ticketswere 
presented.  A great,  stout  gentleman  in  evening  dress, 
perspiring,  his  cravatte  limp,  stood  here,  tearing  the 
checks  from  the  tickets,  and  without  ceasing,  main- 
taining a continuous  outcry  that  dominated  the  mur- 
mur of  the  throng  : 

“ Have  your  tickets  ready,  please  ! Have  your 
tickets  ready.” 

“ Such  a crowd,”  murmured  Page.  “ Did  you  ever 
see — and  every  one  you  ever  knew  or  heard  of.  And 
such  toilettes  ! ” 

With  every  instant  the  number  of  people  in- 
creased; progress  became  impossible,  except  an  inch 
at  a time.  The  women  were,  almost  without  excep- 


6 


The  Pit 


tion,  in  light-coloured  gowns,  white,  pale  blue,  Nile 
green,  and  pink,  while  over  these  costumes  were 
thrown  opera  cloaks  and  capes  of  astonishing  com- 
plexity and  elaborateness.  Nearly  all  were  bare- 
headed, and  nearly  all  wore  aigrettes ; a score  of  these, 
a hundred  of  them,  nodded  and  vibrated  with  an  inces- 
sant agitation  over  the  heads  of  the  crowd  and  flashed 
like  mica  flakes  as  the  wearers  moved.  Everywhere 
the  eye  was  arrested  by  the  luxury  of  stuffs,  the  bril- 
liance and  delicacy  of  fabrics,  laces  as  white  and  soft 
as  froth,  crisp,  shining  silks,  suave  satins,  heavy  gleam- 
ing velvets,  and  brocades  and  plushes,  nearly  all  of 
them  white — violently  so — dazzling  and  splendid  under 
the  blaze  of  the  electrics.  The  gentlemen,  in  long, 
black  overcoats,  and  satin  mufflers,  and  opera  hats ; 
their  hands  under  the  elbows  of  their  women-folk, 
urged  or  guided  them  forward,  distressed,  pre- 
occupied, adjuring  their  parties  to  keep  together;  in 
their  white-gloved  fingers  they  held  their  tickets 
ready.  For  all  the  icy  blasts  that  burst  occasionally 
through  the  storm  doors,  the  vestibule  was  uncom- 
fortably warm,  and  into  this  steam-heated  atmos- 
phere a multitude  of  heavj"  odours  exhaled — the  scent 
of  crushed  flowers,  of  perfume,  of  sachet,  and 
even — occasionally — the  strong  smell  of  damp  seal- 
skin. 

Outside  it  was  bitterly  cold.  All  day  a freezing 
wind  had  blown  from  off  the  Lake,  and  since  five  in  the 
afternoon  a fine  powder  of  snow  had  been  falling.  The 
coachmen  on  the  boxes  of  the  carriages  that  succeeded 
one  another  in  an  interminable  line  before  the  en- 
trance of  the  theatre,  were  swathed  to  the  eyes  in 
furs.  The  spume  and  froth  froze  on  the  bits  of  the 
horses,  and  the  carriage  wheels  crunching  through 
the  dry,  frozen  snow  gave  off  a shrill  staccato  whine. 


A Story  of  Chicago 


7 


Yet  for  all  this,  a crowd  had  collected  about  the  awn- 
ing on  the  sidewalk,  and  even  upon  the  opposite  side  of 
the  street,  peeping  and  peering  from  behind  the  broad 
shoulders  of  policemen — a crowd  of  miserables,  shiver- 
ing in  rags  and  tattered  comforters,  who  found,  never- 
theless, an  unexplainable  satisfaction  in  watching  this 
prolonged  defile  of  millionaires. 

So  great  was  the  concourse  of  teams,  that  two  blocks 
distant  from  the  theatre  they  were  obliged  to  fall  into 
line,  advancing  only  at  intervals,  and  from  door  to 
door  of,  the  carriages  thus  immobilised  ran  a score  of 
young  men,  their  arms  encumbered  with  pamphlets, 
shouting : “ Score  books,  score  books  and  librettos ; 
score  books  with  photographs  of  all  the  artists.” 

However,  in  thev-estibule  the  press  was  thinning  out. 
It  was  understood  that  the  overture  had  begun.  Other 
people  who  were  waiting  like  Laura  and  her  sister 
had  been  joined  by  their  friends  and  had  gone  inside. 
Laura,  for  whom  this  opera  night  had  been  an  event, 
a thing  desired  and  anticipated  with  all  the  eager- 
ness of  a girl  who  had  lived  for  twenty-two  years  in 
a second-class  town  of  central  Massachusetts,  was  in 
great  distress.  She  had  never  seen  Grand  Opera,  she 
would  not  have  missed  a note,  and  now  she  was  in  a 
fair  way  to  lose  the  whole  overture. 

“ Oh,  dear,”  she  cried.  “ Isn’t  it  too  bad.  I can’t 
imagine  why  they  don’t  come.” 

Page,  more  metropolitan,  her  keenness  of  apprecia- 
tion a little  lost  by  two  years  of  city  life  and  fashion- 
able schooling,  tried  to  reassure  her. 

“ You  won’t  lose  much,”  she  said.  “ The  air  of  the 
overture  is  repeated  in  the  first  act — I’ve  heard  it  once 
before.” 

“ If  we  even  see  the  first  act,”  mourned  Laura.  She 
scanned  the  faces  of  the  late  comers  anxiously.  No- 


8 


The  Pit 


body  seemed  to  mind  being  late.  Even  some  of  the 
other  people  who  were  waiting,  chatted  calmly  among 
themselves.  Directly  behind  them  two  men,  their 
faces  close  together,  elaborated  an  interminable  con- 
versation, of  which  from  time  to  time  they  could  over- 
hear a phrase  or  two. 

“ and  I guess  he’ll  do  well  if  he  settles  for  thirty 

cents  on  the  dollar.  I tell  you,  dear  boy,  it  was  a 
smash  ! ” 

“ Never  should  have  tried  to  swing  a comer. 

The  short  interest  was  too  small  and  the  visible 
supply  was  too  great.” 

Page  nudged  her  sister  and  whispered  ; “ That’s 

the  Helmick  failure  they’re  talking  about,  those  men. 
Landry  Court  told  me  all  about  it.  Mr.  Helmick  had 
a corner  in  corn,  and  he  failed  to-day,  or  will  fail  soon, 
or  something.” 

But  Laura,  preoccupied  with  looking  for  the  Cress- 
lers,  hardly  listened.  Aunt  Wess’,  whose  count  was 
confused  by  all  these  figures  murmured  just  behind  her, 
began  over  again,  her  lips  silently  forming  the  words, 
“ sixty-one,  sixty-two,  and  two  is  sixty-four.”  Behind 
them  the  voice  continued : 

“ They  say  Porteous  will  peg  the  market  at  twenty- 
six.” 

“ Well  he  ought  to.  Corn  is  worth  that.” 

“ Never  saw  such  a call  for  margins  in  my  life. 

Some  of  the  houses  called  eight  cents.” 

Page  turned  to  Mrs.  Wessels:  “By  the  way.  Aunt 
Wess  ’ ; look  at  that  man  there  by  the  box  office  win- 
dow, the  one  with  his  back  towards  us,  the  one  with 
his  hands  in  his  overcoat  pockets.  Isn’t  that  Mr. 
Jadwin  ? The  gentleman  we  are  going  to  meet  to- 
night. See  who  I mean?” 


A Story  of  Chicago 


9 


“Who?  Mr.  Jadwin?  I don’t  know.  I don’t 
know,  child.  I never  saw  him,  you  know.” 

“ Well  I think  it  is  he,”  continued  Page.  “ He  was 
to  be  with  our  party  to-night.  I heard  Mrs.  Cressler 
say  she  would  ask  him.  That’s  Mr.  Jadwin,  I’m  sure. 
He’s  waiting  for  them,  too.” 

“ Oh,  then  ask  him  about  it.  Page,”  exclaimed 
Laura.  “We’re  missing  everything.” 

But  Page  shook  her  head: 

“ I only  met  him  once,  ages  ago ; he  wouldn’t  know 
me.  It  was  at  the  Cresslers,  and  we  just  said  ‘How 
do  you  do.’  And  then  maybe  it  isn’t  Mr.  Jadwin.” 

“Oh,  I wouldn’t  bother,  girls,”  said  Mrs.  Wessels. 

“ It’s  all  right.  They’ll  be  here  in  a minute.  I don’t 
believe  the  curtain  has  gone  up  yet.” 

But  the  man  of  whom  they  spoke  turned  around  j 
at  the  moment  and  cast  a glance  about  the  vestibule.  i 
They  saw  a gentleman  of  an  indeterminate  age — 
judged  by  his  face  he  might  as  well  have  been  forty 
as  thirty-five.  A heavy  mustache  touched  with  grey 
covered  his  lips.  The  eyes  were  twinkling  and  good- 
tempered.  Between  his  teeth  he  held  an  unlighted 
cigar. 

“ It  is  Mr.  Jadwin,”  murmured  Page,  looking 
quickly  away.  “ But  he  don’t  recognise  me.” 

Laura  also  averted  her  eyes. 

“ Well,  why  not  go  right  up  to  him  and  introduce 
yourself,  or  recall  yourself  to  him?  ” she  hazarded. 

“ Oh,  Laura,  I couldn’t,”  gasped  Page.  “ I wouldn’t 
for  worlds.” 

“Couldn’t  she.  Aunt  Wess’?”  appealed  Laura. 
“Wouldn’t  it  be  all  right?” 

But  Mrs.  Wessels,  ignoring  forms  and  customs, 
was  helpless.  Again  she  withdrew  from  any  respon- 
sibility in  the  matter. 


lO 


The  Pit 


“ I don’t  know  anything  about  it,”  she  answered. 
“ But  Page  oughtn’t  to  be  bold.” 

“ Oh,  bother ; it  isn’t  that,”  protested  Page.  “ But 
it’s  just  because — I don’t  know,  I don’t  want  to — ■ 
Laura,  I should  just  die,”  she  exclaimed  with  ab- 
rupt irrelevance,  “and  besides,  how  would  that  help 
any?  she  added. 

“Well,  we’re  just  going  to  miss  it  all,”  declared 
Laura  decisively.  There  were  actual  tears  in  her 
eyes.  “ And  I had  looked  forward  to  it  so.” 

“ Well,”  hazarded  Aunt  Wess’,  “ you  girls  can  do 
just  as  you  please.  Only  I wouldn’t  be  bold.” 

“ Well,  would  it  be  bold  if  Page,  or  if — if  I were  to 
speak  to  him?  We’re  going  to  meet  him  anyways  in 
just  a few  minutes.” 

“ Better  wait,  hadn’t  you,  Laura,”  said  Aunt  Wess’, 
“ and  see.  Maybe  he’ll  come  up  and  speak  to  us.” 

“ Oh,  as  if  ! ” contradicted  Laura.  “ He  don’t 
know  us, — ^just  as  Page  says.  And  if  he  did,  he 
wouldn’t.  He  wouldn’t  think  it  polite.” 

“ Then  I guess,  girlie,  it  wouldn’t  be  polite  for  you.” 

“ I think  it  would,”  she  answered.  “ I think  it 
would  be  a woman’s  place.  If  he’s  a gentleman,  he 
would  feel  that  he  just  couldn't  speak  first.  I’m  going 
to  do  it,”  she  announced  suddenly. 

“ Just  as  you  think  best,  Laura,”  said  her  aunt. 

But  nevertheless  Laura  did  not  move,  and  another 
five  minutes  went  by. 

Page  took  advantage  of  the  interval  to  tell  Laura 
about  Jadwin.  He  was  very  rich,  but  a bachelor,  and 
had  made  his  money  in  Chicago  real  estate.  Some  of  his 
holdings  in  the  business  quarter  of  the  city  were  enor- 
mous ; Landry  Court  had  told  her  about  him.  Jadwin, 
unlike  Mr.  Cressler,  was  not  opposed  to  speculation. 
Though  not  a member  of  the  Board  of  Trade,  he  never- 


A Story  of  Chicago 


n 


theless  at  very  long  intervals  took  part  in  a “ deal  ” in 
wheat,  or  corn,  or  provisions.  He  believed  that  all  cor- 
ners were  doomed  to  failure,  however,  and  had  pre- 
dicted Helmick’s  collapse  six  months  ago.  He  had  in- 
fluence, was  well  known  to  all  Chicago  people,  what  he 
said  carried  weight,  flnanciers  consulted  him,  promoters 
sought  his  friendship,  his  name  on  the  board  o direc- 
tors of  a company  was  an  all-sufflcing  endorsement ; in 
a word,  a “ strong  ” man. 

“ I can’t  understand,”  exclaimed  Laura  distrait,  re- 
ferring to  the  delay  on  the  part  of  the  Cresslers. 
“ This  was  the  night,  and  this  was  the  place,  and  it 
is  long  past  the  time.  We  could  telephone  to  the 
house,  you  know,”  she  said,  struck  with  an  idea, 
“ and  see  if  they’ve  started,  or  what  has  happened.” 

“ I don’t  know — I don’t  know,”  murmured  Mrs. 
Wessels  vaguely.  No  one  seemed  ready  to  act  upon 
Laura’s  suggestion,  and  again  the  minutes  passed. 

“ I’m  going,”  declared  Laura  again,  looking  at  the 
other  two,  as  if  to  demand  what  they  had  to  say 
against  the  idea. 

“ I just  couldn’t,”  declared  Page  flatly. 

“Well,”  continued  Laura,  “ I’ll  wait  just  three  min- 
utes more,  and  then  if  the  Cresslers  are  not  here  I 
will  speak  to  him.  It  seems  to  me  to  be  perfectly 
natural,  and  not  at  all  bold.” 

She  waited  three  minutes,  and  the  Cresslers  still 
failing  to  appear,  temporised  yet  further,  for  the  twen- 
tieth time  repeating : 

“ I don’t  see — I can’t  understand.” 

Then,  abruptly  drawing  her  cape  about  her,  she 
crossed  the  vestibule  and  came  up  to  Jadwin. 

As  she  appproached  she  saw  him  catch  her  eye. 
Then,  as  he  appeared  to  understan-d  that  this  young 
woman  was  about  to  speak  to  him,  she  noticed  an 


12 


The  Pit 


expression  of  suspicion,  almost  of  distrust,  come  into 
his  face.  No  doubt  he  knew  nothing  of  this  other 
party  who  were  to  join  the  Cresslers  in  the  vestibule. 
Why  should  this  girl  speak  to  him?  Something  had 
gone  wrong,  and  the  instinct  of  the  man,  no  longer 
very  young,  to  keep  out  of  strange  young  women’s 
troubles  betrayed  itself  in  the  uneasy  glance  that  he 
shot  at  her  from  under  his  heavy  eyebrows.  But  the 
look  faded  as  quickly  as  it  had  come.  Laura  guessed 
that  he  had  decided  that  in  such  a place  as  this  he 
need  have  no  suspicions.  He  took  the  cigar  fom  his 
mouth,  and  she,  immensely  relieved,  realised  that  she 
had  to  do  with  a man  who  was  a gentleman.  Full  of 
trepidation  as  she  had  been  in  crossing  the  vestibule, 
she  was  quite  mistress  of  herself  when  the  instant 
came  for  her  to  speak,  and  it  was  in  a steady  voice 
and  without  embarrassment  that  she  said: 

“ I beg  your  pardon,  but  I believe  this  is  Mr.  Jad- 
win.” 

He  took  off  his  hat,  evidently  a little  nonplussed 
that  she  should  know  his  name,  and  by  now  she  was 
ready  even  to  browbeat  him  a little  should  it  be  nec- 
essary. 

“ Yes,  yes,”  he  answered,  now  much  more  confused 
than  she,  “ my  name  is  Jadwin.” 

“ I believe,”  continued  Laura  steadily,  “ we  were 
all  to  be  in  the  same  party  to-night  with  the  Cresslers. 
But  they  don’t  seem  to  come,  and  we — my  sister  and 
my  aunt  and  I — don’t  know  what  to  do.” 

She  saw  that  he  was  embarrassed,  convinced,  and 
the  knowledge  that  she  controlled  the  little  situation, 
that  she  could  command  him,  restored  her  all  her 
equanimity. 

“ My  name  is  Miss  Dearborn,”  she  continued. 
“ I believe  you  know  my  sister  Page.” 


A Story  of  Chicago  13 

By  some  trick  of  manner  she  managed  to  convey 
to  him  the  impression  that  if  he  did  not  know  her  sis- 
ter Page,  that  if  for  one  instant  he  should  deem  her 
to  be  bold,  he  would  offer  a mortal  affront.  She  had 
not  yet  forgiven  him  that  stare  of  suspicion  when 
first  their  eyes  had  met;  he  should  pay  her  for  that 
yet. 

“ Miss  Page, — your  sister, — Miss  Page  Dearborn  ? 
Certainly  I know  her,”  he  answered.  “ And  you 
have  been  waiting,  too?  What  a pity!”  And  he 
permitted  himself  the  awkwardness  of  adding : “ I did 
not  know  that  you  were  to  be  of  our  party.” 

“ No,”  returned  Laura  upon  the  instant,  “ I did  not 
know  you  were  to  be  one  of  us  to-night — until  Page 
told  me.”  She  accented  the  pronouns  a little,  but  it 
was  enough  for  him  to  know  that  he  had  been  re- 
buked. How,  he  could  not  just  say;  and  for  what  it 
was  impossible  for  him  at  the  moment  to  determine; 
and  she  could  see  that  he  began  to  experience  a cer- 
tain distress,  was  beating  a retreat,  was  ceding  place 
to  her.  Who  was  she,  then,  this  tall  and  pretty 
young  woman,  with  the  serious,  unsmiling  face,  who 
was  so  perfectly  at  ease,  and  who  hustled  him  about 
and  made  him  feel  as  though  he  were  to  blame  for 
the  Cresslers’  non-appearance;  as  though  it  was  his 
fault  that  she  must  wait  in  the  draughty  vestibule. 
She  had  a great  air  with  her;  how  had  he  offended 
her?  If  he  had  introduced  himself  to  her,  had 
forced  himself  upon  her,  she  could  not  be  more  lofty, 
more  reserved. 

“ I thought  perhaps  you  might  telephone,”  she 
observed. 

“ They  haven’t  a telephone,  unfortunately,”  he 
answered. 

“Ohl” 


The  Pit 


H 

This  was  quite  the  last  slight,  the  Cresslers  had 
not  a telephone!  He  was  to  blame  for  that,  too,  it 
seemed.  At  his  wits’  end,  he  entertained  for  an  in- 
stant the  notion  of  dashing  out  into  the  street  in  a 
search  for  a messenger  boy,  who  would  take  a note 
to  Cressler  and  set  him  right  again ; and  his  agitation 
was  not  allayed  when  Laura,  in  frigid  tones,  de- 
clared : 

“ It  seems  to  me  that  something  might  be  done.” 

“ I don’t  know,”  he  replied  helplessly.  “ I guess 
there’s  nothing  to  be  done  but  just  wait.  They  are 
sure  to  be  along.” 

In  the  background.  Page  and  Mrs.  Wessels  had 
watched  the  interview,  and  had  guessed  that  Laura 
was  none  too  gracious.  Always  anxious  that  her  sis- 
ter should  make  a good  impression,  the  little  girl  was 
now  in  great  distress. 

“ Laura  is  putting  on  her  ‘ grand  manner,’  ” she 
lamented.  “ I just  know  how  she’s  talking.  The 
man  will  hate  the  very  sound  of  her  name  all  the  rest 
of  his  life.”  Then  all  at  once  she  uttered  a joyful  ex- 
clamation : “ At  last,  at  last,”  she  cried,  “ and  about 
time,  too  1 ” 

The  Cresslers  and  the  rest  of  the  party — two  young 
men — had  appeared,  and  Page  and  her  aunt  came  up 
just  in  time  to  hear  Mrs.  Cressler — a fine  old  lady,  in 
a wonderful  ermine-trimmed  cape,  whose  hair  was 
powdered — exclaim  at  the  top  of  her  voice,  as  if  the 
mere  declaration  of  fact  was  final,  absolutely  the  last 
word  upon  the  subject,  “The  bridge  was  turned!” 

The  Cresslers  lived  on  the  North  Side.  The  inci- 
dent seemed  to  be  closed  with  the  abruptness  of  a 
slammed  door. 

Page  and  Aunt  Wess’  were  introduced  to  Jadwin, 
who  was  particular  to  announce  that  he  remem- 


A Story  of  Chicago 


15 


bered  the  young  girl  perfectly.  The  two  young  men 
were  already  acquainted  with  the  Dearborn  sisters 
and  Mrs.  Wessels.  Page  and  Laura  knew  one  of 
them  Well  enough  to  address  him  familiarly  by  his 
Christian  name. 

This  was  Landry  Court,  a young  fellow  just  turned 
twenty-three,  who  was  “ connected  with  ” the  staff  of 
the  great  brokerage  firm  of  Gretry,  Converse  and  Co. 
He  was  astonishingly  good-looking,  small-made,  wiry, 
alert,  nervous,  debonair,  with  blond  hair  and  dark  eyes 
that  snapped  like  a terrier’s.  He  made  friends  almost 
at  first  sight,  and  was  one  of  those  fortunate  few  who 
were  favoured  equally  of  men  and  women.  The  healthi- 
ness of  his  eye  and  skin  persuaded  to  a belief  in  the 
healthiness  of  his  nfiind;  and,  in  fact,  Landry  was  as 
clean  without  as  within.  He  was  frank,  open-hearted, 
full  of  fine  sentiments  and  exaltations  and  enthusiasms. 
Until  he  was  eighteen  he  had  cherished  an  ambition  to 
become  the  President  of  the  United  States. 

“Yes,  yes,”  he  said  to  Laura,  “the  bridge  was 
turned.  It  was  an  imposition.  We  had  to  wait 
while  they  let  three  tows  through.  I think  two  at  a 
time  is  as  much  as  is  legal.  And  we  had  to  wait  for 
three.  Yes,  sir;  three,  think  of  that!  I shall  look 
into  that  to-morrow.  Yes,  sir;  don’t  you  be  afraid  of 
that.  I’ll  look  into  it.”  He  nodded  his  head  with 
profound  seriousness. 

“Well,”  announced  Mr.  Cressler,  marshalling  the 
party,  “ shall  we  go  in  ? I’m  afraid,  Laura,  we’ve 
missed  the  overture.” 

Smiling,  she  shrugged  her  shoulders,  while  they 
moved  to  the  wicket,  as  if  to  say  that  it  could  not  be 
helped  now. 

Cressler,  tall,  lean,  bearded,  and  stoop-shouldered, 
belonging  to  the  same  physical  type  that  includes 


36 


The  Pit 


Lincoln — the  type  of  the  Middle  West — was  almost 
a second  father  to  the  parentless  Dearborn  girlsi  In 
Massachusetts,  thirty  years  before  this  time,  he  nad 
been  a farmer,  and  the  miller  Dearborn  used  to  grind 
his  grain  regularly.  The  two  had  been  boys  together, 
had  always  remained  fast  friends, almost  brothers. 
Then,  in  the  years  just  before  the  War,  had  come 
the  great  movement  westward,  and  Cressler  had  been 
one  of  those  to  leave  an  “ abandoned  ” New  England 
farm  behind  him,  and  with  his  family  emigrate  toward 
the  Mississippi.  He  had  come  to  Sangamon  County 
in  Illinois.  For  a time  he  tried  wheat-raising,  until 
the  War,  which  skied  the  prices  of  all  food-stuffs,  had 
made  him — for  those  days — a rich  man.  Giving  up 
farming,  he  came  to  live  in  Chicago,  bought  a seat  on 
the  Board  of  Trade,  and  in  a few  years  was  a million- 
aire. At  the  time  of  the  Turco-Russian  War  he  and 
two  Milwaukee  men  had  succeeded  in  cornering  all 
the  visible  supply  of  spring  wheat.  At  the  end  of  the 
thirtieth  day  of  the  corner  the  clique  figured  out  its 
profits  at  close  upon  a million ; a week  later  it  looked 
like  a million  and  a half.  Then  the  three  lost  their 
heads;  they  held  the  corner  just  a fraction  of  a month 
too  long,  and  when  the  time  came  that  the  three  were 
forced  to  take  profits,  they  found  that  they  were  unable 
to  close  out  their  immense  holdings  without  breaking 
the  price.  In  two  days  wheat  that  they  had  held  at 
a dollar  and  ten  cents  collapsed  to  sixty.  The  two 
Milwaukee  men  were  ruined,  and  two-thirds  of  Cress- 
ler’s  immense  fortune  vanished  like  a whiff  of  smoke. 

But  he  had  learned  his  lesson.  Never  since  then 
had  he  speculated.  Though  keeping  his  seat  on  the 
Board,  he  had  confined  himself  to  commission  trad- 
ing, uninfluenced  by  fluctuations  in  the  market. 
And  he  was  never  wearied  of  protesting  against  the 


A Story  of  Chicago 


17 


evil  and  the  danger  of  trading  in  margins.  Specula- 
tion he  abhorred  as  the  small-pox,  believing  it  to  be 
impossible  to  corner  grain  by  any  means  or  under  any 
circumstances*^  He  was  accustomed  to  say : “ It 
can’t  be  done ; first,  for  the  reason  that  there  is  a great 
harvest  of  wheat  somewhere  in  the  world  for  every 
month  in  the  year;  and,  second,  because  the  smart 
man  who  runs  the  corner  has  every  other  smart  man 
in  the  world  against  him.  And,  besides,  it’s  wrong; 
the  world’s  food  should  not  be  at  the  mercy  of  the 
Chicago  wheat  pit.” 

As  the  party  filed  in  through  the  wicket,  the  other 
young  man  who  had  come  with  Landry  Court  man- 
aged to  place  himself  next  to  Laura.  Meeting  her 
eyes,  he  murmured: 

“ Ah,  you  did  not  wear  them  after  all.  My  poor 
little  flowers.” 

But  she  showed  him  a single  American  Beauty, 
pinned  to  the  shoulder  of  her  gown  beneath  her  cape. 

‘|_Yes,  Mr, -Corthell,”  she  answered,  “one.  I tried 
to  select  the  prettiest,  and  I think  I succeeded — don’t 
you?  It  was  hard  to  choose.” 

“ Since  you  have  worn  it,  it  is  the  prettiest,”  he 
answered. 

He  was  a slightly  built  man  of  about  twenty-eight 
or  thirty ; dark,  wearing  a small,  pointed  beard,  and  a 
mustache  that  he  brushed  away  from  his  lips  like  a 
Frenchman.  By  profession  he  was  an  artist,  devot- 
ing himself  more  especially  to  the  designing  of  stained 
windows.  In  this,  his  talent  was  indisputable.  But 
he  was  by  no  means  dependent  upon  his  profession 
for  a living,  his  parents — long  since  dead — having  left 
him  to  the  enjoyment  of  a very  considerable  fortune. 
He  had  a beautiful  studio  in  the  Fine  Arts  Building, 
where  he  held  receptions  once  every  two  months,  or 


2 


i8 


ihe  Pii 


whenever  he  had  a fine  piece  of  glass  to  expose.  He 
had  travelled,  read,  studied,  occasionally  written,  and 
in  matters  pertaining  to  the  colouring  and  fusing  of 
glass  was  cited  as  an  authority.  He  was  one  of  the 
directors  of  the  new  Art  Gallery  that  had  taken  the 
place  of  the  old  Exposition  Building  on  the  Lake 
Front. 

Laura  had  known  him  for  some  little  time.  On  the 
occasion  of  her  two  previous  visits  to  Page  he  had 
found  means  to  see  her  two  or  three  times  each  week. 
Once,  even,  he  had  asked  her  to  marry  him,  but  she, 
deep  in  her  studies  at  the  time,  consumed  with  vague 
ambitions  to  be  a great  actress  of  Shakespearian 
roles,  had  told  him  she  could  care  for  nothing  but 
her  art.  He  had  smiled  and  said  that  he  could  wait, 
and,  strangely  enough,  their  relations  had  resumed 
again  upon  the  former  footing.  Even  after  she  had 
gone  away  they  had  corresponded  regularly,  and  he 
had  made  and  sent  her  a tiny  window — a veritable 
jewel — illustrative  of  a scene  from  “Twelfth  Night.” 

In  the  foyer,  as  the  gentlemen  were  checking  their 
coats,  Laura  overheard  Jadwin  say  to  Mr.  Cressler: 

“Well,  how  about  Helmick?" 

The  other  made  an  impatient  movement  of  his 
shoulders. 

“ Ask  me^  what  was  the  fool  thinking  of — a comer  I 
Pshaw!” 

There  were  one  or  two  other  men  about,  making 
their  overcoats  and  opera  hats  into  neat  bundles  pre- 
paratory to  checking  them;  and  instantly  there  was 
a flash  of  a half-dozen  eyes  in  the  direction  of  the  two 
men.  Evidently  the  collapse  of  the  Helmick  deal  was 
in  the  air.  All  the  city  seemed  interested. 

But  from  behind  the  heavy  curtains  that  draped  the 
entrance  to  the  theatre  proper,  came  a muffled  burst 


A Story  of  Chicago 


19 


of  music,  followed  by  a long  salvo  of  applause. 
Laura’s  cheeks  flamed  with  impatience,  she  hurried 
after  Mrs.  Cressler;  Corthell  drew  the  curtains  for 
her  to  pass,  and  she  entered. 

Inside  it  was  dark,  and  a prolonged  puff  of  hot  air, 
thick  with  the  mingled  odours  of  flowers,  perfume,  up' 
holstery,  and  gas,  enveloped  her  upon  the  instant.  It 
was  the  unmistakable,  unforgetable,  entrancing  aroma 
of  the  theatre,  that  she  had  known  only  too  seldom, 
but  that  in  a second  set  her  heart  galloping. 

Every  available  space  seemed  to  be  occupied.  Men, 
even  women,  were  standing  up,  compacted  into  a suf- 
focating pressure,  and  for  the  moment  everybody  was 
applauding  vigorously.  On  all  sides  Laura  heard; 

“ Bravo ! ” 

“ Good,  good ! ” 

“ Very  well  done!  ” 

“ Encore ! Encore ! ” 

Between  the  peoples’  heads  and  below  the  low  dip 
of  the  overhanging  balcony — a brilliant  glare  in  the 
surrounding  darkness — she  caught  a glimpse  of  the 
stage.  It  was  set  for  a garden ; at  the  back  and  in  the 
distance  a chateau ; on  the  left  a bower,  and  on  the 
right  a pavilion.  Before  the  foolights,  a famous  con- 
tralto, dressed  as  a boy,  was  bowing  to  the  audience, 
her  arms  full  of  flowers. 

“ Too  bad,”  whispered  Corthell  to  Laura,  as  they 
followed  the  others  down  the  side-aisle  to  the  box. 
“ Too  bad,  this  is  the  second  act  already;  you’ve  missed 
the  whole  first  act — and  this  song.  She’ll  sing  it  over 
again,  though,  just  for  you,  if  I have  to  lead  the  ap- 
plause myself.  I particularly  wanted  you  to  hear  that.” 

Once  in  the  box,  the  party  found  itself  a little 
crowded,  and  Jadwin  and  Cressler  were  obliged  to 
stand,  in  order  to  see  the  stage.  Although  they  all 


20 


The  Pit 


spoke  in  whispers,  their  arrival  was  the  signal  for 
certain  murmurs  of  “ Sh ! Sh ! ” Mrs,  Cressler  made 
Laura  occupy  the  front  seat.  Jadwin  took  her  cloak 
from  her,  and  she  settled  herself  in  her  chair  and 
looked  about  her.  She  could  see  but  little  of  the 
house  or  audience.  All  the  lights  were  lowered;  only 
through  the  gloom  the  swaying  of  a multitude  of 
fans,  pale  coloured,  like  night-moths  balancing  in  the 
twilight,  defined  itself. 

But  soon  she  turned  towards  the  stage.  The  ap- 
plause died  away,  and  the  contralto  once  more  sang 
the  aria.  The  melody  was  simple,  the  tempo  easily 
followed ; it  was  not  a very  high  order  of  music. 
But  to  Laura  it  was  nothing  short  of  a revelation. 

She  sat  spell-bound,  her  hands  clasped  tight,  her 
every  faculty  of  attention  at  its  highest  pitch.  It  was 
wonderful,  such  music  as  that ; wonderful,  such  a 
voice ; wonderful,  such  orchestration ; wonderful,  such 
exaltation  inspired  by  mere  beauty  of  sound.  Never, 
never  was  this  night  to  be  forgotten,  this  her  first 
night  of  Grand  Opera.  All  this  excitement,  this 
world  of  perfume,  of  flowers,  of  exquisite  costumes, 
of  beautiful  women,  of  fine,  brave  men.  She  looked 
back  with  immense  pity  to  the  narrow  little  life  of  her 
native  town  she  had  just  left  forever,  the  restricted 
horizon,  the  petty  round  of  petty  duties,  the  rare  and 
barren  pleasures — the  library,  the  festival,  the  few 
concerts,  the  trivial  plays.  How  easy  it  was  to  be 
good  and  noble  when  music  such  as  this  had  become 
a part  of  one’s  life ; how  desirable  was  wealth  when 
it  could  make  possible  such  exquisite  happiness  as 
hers  of  the  moment.  Nobility,  purity,  courage,  sac- 
rifice seemed  much  more  worth  while  now  than  a few 
moments  ago.  All  things  not  positively  unworthy 
became  heroic,  all  things  and  all  men.  Landry  Court 


A Story  of  Chicago 


21 


was  a young  chevalier,  pure  as  Galahad.  Corthell 
was  a beautiful  artist-priest  of  the  early  Renaissance. 
Even  Jadwin  was  a merchant  prince,  a great  financial 
captain.  And  she  herself — ah,  she  did  not  know;  she 
dreamed  of  another  Laura,  a better,  gentler,  more 
beautiful  Laura,  whom  everybody,  everybody  loved 
dearly  and  tenderly,  and  who  loved  everybody,  and 
who  should  die  beautifully,  gently,  in  some  garden 
far  away — die  because  of  a great  love — beautifully, 
gently  in  the  midst  of  flowers,  die  of  a broken  heart, 
and  all  the  world  should  be  sorry  for  her,  and  would 
weep  over  her  when  they  fortnd  her  dead  and  beauti- 
ful in  her  garden,  amid  the  flowers  and  the  birds,  in 
some  far-off  place,  where  it  was  always  early  morning 
and  where  there  was  soft  music.  And  she  was  so 
sorry  for  herself,  and  so  hurt  with  the  sheer  strength 
of  her  longing  to  be  good  and  true,  and  noble  and 
womanly,  that  as  she  sat  in  the  front  of  the  Cresslers’ 
box  on  that  marvellous  evening,  the  tears  ran  down 
her  cheeks  again  and  again,  and  dropped  upon  her 
tight-shut,  white-gloved  fingers. 

But  the  contralto  had  disappeared,  and  in  her  place 
the  tenor  held  the  stage — a stout,  short  young  man  in 
red  plush  doublet  and  grey  silk  tights.  His  chin  ad- 
vanced, an  arm  extended,  one  hand  pressed  to  his 
breast,  he  apostrophised  the  pavilion,  that  now  and 
then  swayed  a little  in  the  draught  from  the  wings. 

The  aria  was  received  with  furor;  thrice  he  was 
obliged  to  repeat  it.  Even  Corthell,  who  was  critical 
to  extremes,  approved,  nodding  his  head.  Laura  and 
Page  clapped  their  hands  till  the  very  last.  But 
Landry  Court,  to  create  an  impression,  assumed  a 
certain  disaffection. 

“ He’s  not  in  voice  to-night.  Too  bad.  You  should 
have  heard  him  Friday  in  ‘ Aida.’  ” 


22 


The  Pit 


The  opera  continued.  The  great  soprano,  the 
prima  donna,  appeared  and  delivered  herself  of  a 
song  for  which  she  was  famous  with  astonishing  eclat. 
Then  in  a little  while  the  stage  grew  dark,  the  or- 
chestration lapsed  to  a murmur,  and  the  tenor  and 
the  soprano  reentered.  He  clasped  her  in  his  arms 
and  sang  a half-dozen  bars,  then  holding  her  hand, 
one  arm  still  about  her  waist,  withdrew  from  her 
gradually,  till  she  occupied  the  front-centre  of  the 
stage.  He  assumed  an  attitude  of  adoration  and  won- 
derment, his  eyes  uplifted  as  if  entranced,  and  she, 
very  softly,  to  the  accompaniment  of  the  sustained, 
dreamy  chords  of  the  orchestra,  began  her  solo. 

Laura  shut  her  eyes.  Never  had  she  felt  so  soothed, 
so  cradled  and  lulled  and  languid.  Ah,  to  love  like 
that!  To  love  and  be  loved.  There  was  no  such  love 
as  that  to-day.  She  wished  that  she  could  loose  her 
clasp  upon  the  sordid,  material  modern  life  that,  per- 
force, she  must  hold  to,  she  knew  not  why,  and  drift, 
drift  off  into  the  past,  far  away,  through  rose-coloured 
mists  and  diaphanous  veils,  or  resign  herself,  reclin- 
ing in  a silver  skiff  drawn  by  swans,  to  the  gentle 
current  of  some  smooth-flowing  river  that  ran  on  for- 
ever and  forever. 

But  a discordant  element  developed.  Close  by — 
the  lights  were  so  low  she  could  not  tell  where — a con- 
versation, kept  up  in  low  whispers,  began  by  degrees  to 
intrude  itself  upon  her  attention.  Try  as  she  would, 
she  could  not  shut  it  out,  and  now,  as  the  music  died 
away  fainter  and  fainter,  till  voice  and  orchestra 
blended  together  in  a single,  barely  audible  murmur, 
vibrating  with  emotion,  with  romance,  and  with  sen- 
timent, she  heard,  in  a hoarse,  masculine  whisper,  the 
words : 

“ The  shortage  is  a million  bushels  at  the  very 


A Story  of  Chicago 


23 


least.  Two  hundred  carloads  were  to  arrive  from 
Milwaukee  last  night ” 

She  made  a little  gesture  of  despair,  turning  her 
head  for  an  instant,  searching  the  gloom  about  her. 
But  she  could  see  no  one  not  interested  in  the  stage, 
^hy  could  not  men  leave  their  business  outside,  why- 
must  the  jar  of  commerce  spoil  all  the  harmony  of 
this  momen{3 

However,  all  sounds  were  drowned  suddenly  in  a 
long  burst  of  applause.  The  tenor  and  soprano  bowed 
and  smiled  across  the  footlights.  The  soprano  van- 
ished, only  to  reappear  on  the  balcony  of  the  pavil- 
ion, and  while  she  declared  that  the  stars  and  the 
night-bird  together  sang  “ He  loves  thee,”  the  voices 
close  at  hand  continued : 

“ ^one  hundred  and  six  carloads ” 

“ paralysed  the  bulls ” 


“ ^fifty  thousand  dollars ” 

Then  all  at  once  the  lights  went  up.  The  act  was 
over. 

Laura  seemed  only  to  come  to  herself  some  five 
minutes  later.  She  and  Corthell  were  out  in  the  foyer 
behind  the  boxes.  Everybody  was  promenading.  The 
air  was  filled  with  the  staccato  chatter  of  a multitude 
of  women.  But  she  herself  seemed  far  away — she  and 
Sheldon  Corthell.  His  face,  dark,  romantic,  with  the 
silky  beard  and  eloquent  eyes,  appeared  to  be  all  she 
cared  to  see,  while  his  low  voice,  that  spoke  close  to 
her  ear,  was  in  a way  a mere  continuation  of  the  mel- 
ody of  the  duet  just  finished. 

Instinctively  she  knew  what  he  was  about  to  say, 
for  what  he  was  trying  to  prepare  her.  She  felt,  too, 
that  he  had  not  expected  to  talk  thus  to  her  to-night. 
She  knew  that  he  loved  her,  that  inevitably,  sooner  or 
later,  they  must  return  to  a subject  that  for  long  had 


H 


The  Pit 


been  excluded  from  their  conversations,  but  it  was 
to  have  been  when  they  were  alone,  remote,  secluded, 
not  in  the  midst  of  a crowd,  brilliant  electrics  dazzling 
their  eyes,  the  humming  of  the  talk  of  hundreds  as- 
saulting their  ears.  But  it  seemed  as  if  these  impor- 
tant things  came  of  themselves,  independent  of  time 
and  place,  like  birth  and  death.  There  was  nothing 
to  do  but  to  accept  the  situation,  and  it  was  without 
surprise  that  at  last,  from  out  the  murmur  of  Cor- 
thell’s  talk,  she  was  suddenly  conscious  of  the  words : 

“ So  that  it  is  hardly  necessary,  is  it,  to  tell  you 
once  more  that  I love  you?  ” 

She  drew  a long  breath. 

“ I know.  I know  you  love  me.” 

They  had  sat  down  on  a divan,  at  one  end  of  the 
promenade ; and  Corthell,  skilful  enough  in  the  little 
arts  of  the  drawing-room,  made  it  appear  as  though 
they  talked  of  commonplaces  ; as  for  Laura,  exalted, 
all  but  hypnotised  with  this  marvellous  evening,  she 
hardly  cared;  she  would  not  even  stoop  to  maintain 
appearances. 

“ Yes,  yes,”  she  said ; “ I know  you  love  me.” 

“And  is  that  all  you  can  say?”  he  urged.  “Does 
it  mean  nothing  to  you  that  you  are  everything  to 
me?  ” 

She  was  coming  a little  to  herself  again.  Love  was, 
after  all,  sweeter  in  the  actual — even  in  this  crowded 
foyer,  in  this  atmosphere  of  silk  and  jewels,  in  this 
show-place  of  a great  city’s  society — than  in  a mystic 
garden  of  some  romantic  dreamland.  She  felt  her- 
self a woman  again,  modern,  vital,  and  no  longer  a 
maiden  of  a legend  of  chivalry. 

“Nothing  to  me?”  she  answered.  “I  don’t  know. 
I should  rather  have  you  love  me  than — not.” 

“ Let  me  love  you  then  for  always,”  he  went  on. 


25 


A Story  of  Chicago 

“ You  know  what  I mean.  We  have  understood  each 
other  from  the  very  first.  Plainly,  and  very  simply, 
I love  you  with  all  my  heart.  You  know  now  that 
I speak  the  truth,  you  know  that  you  can  trust  me.  I 
shall  not  ask  you  to  share  your  life  with  mine.  I 
ask  you  for  the  great  happiness  ” — he  raised  his  head 
sharply,  suddenly  proud — “ the  great  honour  of  the  op- 
portunity of  giving  you  all  that  I have  of  good.  God 
give  me  humility,  but  that  is  much  since  I have  known 
you.  If  I were  a better  man  because  of  myself,  I 
would  not  presume  to  speak  of  it,  but  if  I am  in  any- 
thing less  selfish,  if  I am  more  loyal,  if  I am  stronger, 
or  braver,  it  is  only  something  of  you  that  has  become 
a part  of  me,  and  made  me  to  be  born  again.  So  when 
I offer  myself  to  you,  I am  only  bringing  back  to  you 
the  gift  you  gave  me  for  a little  while.  I have  tried  to 
keep  it  for  you,  to  keep  it  bright  and  sacred  and  un- 
spotted. It  is  yours  again  now  if  you  will  have  it.” 

There  was  a long  pause;  a group  of  men  in  opera 
hats  and  white  gloves  came  up  the  stairway  close  at 
hand.  The  tide  of  promenaders  set  towards  the  en- 
trances of  the  theatre.  A little  electric  bell  shrilled 
a note  of  warning. 

I^ura  looked  up  at  length,  and  as  their  glances  met, 
he  saw^hat  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes.  This  dec- 
laration of  his  love  for  her  was  the  last  touch  to  the 
greatest  exhilaration  of  happiness  she  had  ever  known. 
Ah  yes,  she  was  loved,  just  as  that  young  girl  of  the 
opera  had  been  loved.  For  this  one  evening,  at  least, 
the  beauty  of  life  was  unmarred,  and  no  cruel  word 
of  hers  should  spoil  it.  The  world  was  beautiful. 
All  people  were  good  and  noble  and  true.  To-morrow, 
with  the  material  round  of  duties  and  petty  respon- 
sibilities and  cold,  calm  reason,  was  far,  far  away. 


26 


The  Pit 


Suddenly  she  turned  to  him,  surrendering  to  the  im- 
pulse, forgetful  of  consequences. 

“ Oh,  I am  glad,  glad  ” she  cried,  “ glad  that  you 
love  me  1 ” 

But  before  Corthell  could  say  anything  more  Lan- 
dry Court  and  Page  came  up. 

“ We’ve  been  looking  for  you,”  said  the  young  girl 
quietly.  Page  was  displeased.  She  took  herself  and 
her  sister — in  fact,  the  whole  scheme  of  existence 
— with  extraordinary  seriousness.  She  had  no  sense 
of  humour.  She  was  not  tolerant;  her  ideas  of  pro- 
priety and  the  amenities  were  as  immutable  as  the 
fixed  stars.  A fine  way  for  Laura  to  act,  getting  off 
into  corners  with  Sheldon  Corthell.  It  would  take 
less  than  that  to  make  talk.  If  she  had  no  sense  of 
her  obligations  to  Mrs.  Cressler,  at  least  she  ought  to 
think  of  the  looks  of  things. 

“ They’re  beginning  again,”  she  said  solemnly.  “ I 
should  think  you’d  feel  as  though  you  had  missed 
about  enough  of  this  opera.” 

They  returned  to  the  box.  The  rest  of  the  party 
were  reassembling. 

“Well,  Laura,”  said  Mrs.  Cressler,  when  they  had 
sat  down,  “ do  you  like  it  ? ” 

“ I don’t  want  to  leave  it — ever,”  she  answered.  “ I 
could  stay  here  always.” 

“ I like  the  young  man  best,”  observ^ed  Aunt  Wess’. 
“ The  one  who  seems  to  be  the  friend  of  the  tall  fel- 
low with  a cloak.  But  why  does  he  seem  so  sorry? 
Why  don’t  he  marry  the  young  lady?  Let’s  see,  I 
don’t  remember  his  name.” 

“ Beastly  voice,”  declared  Landry  Court.  " He 
almost  broke  there  once.  Too  bad.  He’s  not  what 
he  used  to  be.  It  seems  he’s  terribly  dissipated- 
drinks.  Yes,  sir,  like  a fish.  He  had  delirium  tre* 


27 


A Story  of  Chicago 

mens  once  behind  the  scenes  in  Philadelphia,  and 
stabbed  a scene  shifter  with  his  stage  dagger.  A bad 
lot,  to  say  the  least.” 

“ Now,  Landry,”  protested  Mrs.  Cressler,  “ you’re 
making  it  up  as  you  go  along.”  And  in  the  laugh  that 
followed  Landry  himself  joined. 

“ After  all,”  said  Corthell,  “ this  music  seems  to  be 
just  the  right  medium  between  the  naive  melody  of 
the  Italian  school  and  the  elaborate  complexity  of 
Wagner.  I can’t  help  but  be  carried  away  with  it  at 
times — in  spite  of  my  better  judgment.” 

Jadwin,  who  had  been  smoking  a cigar  in  the  ves- 
tibule during  the  entr'acte,  rubbed  his  chin  reflec- 
tively. 

“Well,”  he  said,  “it’s  all  very  fine.  I’ve  no  doubt 
of  that,  but  I give  you  my  word  I would  rather  hear 
my  old  governor  take  his  guitar  and  sing  ‘ Father,  oh 
father,  come  home  with  me  now,’  than  all  the  fiddle- 
faddle,  tweedle-deedle  opera  business  in  the  whole 
world.” 

But  the  orchestra  was  returning,  the  musicians 
crawling  out  one  by  one  from  a little  door  beneath 
the  stage  hardly  bigger  than  the  entrance  of  a rabbit 
hutch.  They  settled  themselves  in  front  of  their  racks, 
adjusting  their  coat-tails,  fingering  their  sheet  music. 
Soon  they  began  to  tune  up,  and  a vague  bourdon  of 
many  sounds — the  subdued  snarl  of  the  cornets,  the 
dull  mutter  of  the  bass  viols,  the  liquid  gurgling  of  the 
flageolets  and  wood-wind  instruments,  now  and  then 
pierced  by  the  strident  chirps  and  cries  of  the  violins, 
rose  into  the  air  dominating  the  incessant  clamour  of 
conversation  that  came  from  all  parts  of  the  theatre. 

Then  suddenly  the  house  lights  sank  and  the  foot- 
lights rose.  Froim  all  over  the  theatre  came  energetic 
whispers  of  “ Sh ! Sh ! ” Three  strokes,  as  of  a great 


28 


The  Pit 


mallet,  sepulchral,  grave,  came  from  behind  the 
wings ; the  leader  of  the  orchestra  raised  his  baton, 
then  brought  it  slowly  down,  and  while  from  all  the 
instruments  at  once  issued  a prolonged  minor  chord, 
emphasised  by  a mufifled  roll  of  the  kettle-drum,  the 
curtain  rose  upon  a mediaeval  public  square.  The 
soprano  was  seated  languidly  upon  a bench.  Her 
grande  scene  occurred  in  this  act.  Her  hair  was  un- 
bound; she  wore  a loose  robe  of  cream  white,  with 
flowing  sleeves,  which  left  the  arms  bare  to  the  shoul- 
der. At  the  waist  it  was  caught  in  by  a girdle  of  silk 
rope. 

“ This  is  the  great  act,”  whispered  Mrs.  Cressler, 
leaning  over  Laura’s  shoulder.  “ She  is  superb  later 
on.  Superb.” 

“ I wish  those  men  would  stop  talking,”  murmured 
Laura,  searching  the  darkness  distressfully,  for  be- 
tween the  strains  of  the  music  she  had  heard  the 
words : 

“ Clearing  House  balance  of  three  thousand  dol- 

lars.” 

Meanwhile  the  prima  donna,  rising  to  her  feet,  de- 
livered herself  of  a lengthy  recitative,  her  chin  upon 
her  breast,  her  eyes  looking  out  from  under  her  brows, 
an  arm  stretched  out  over  the  footlights.  The  baritone 
entered,  striding  to  the  left  of  the  footlights,  apostro- 
phising the  prima  donna  in  a rage.  She  clasped  her 
hands  imploringly,  supplicating  him  to  leave  her,  ex- 
claiming from  time  to  time : 


“ Vd  via,  va  via-— 

Vel  chieco  ptr  pieta” 


Then  all  at  once,  while  the  orchestra  blared,  they 
fell  into  each  other’s  arms. 


A Story  of  Chicago 


29 


“Why  do  they  do  that?”  murmured  Aunt  Wess’ 
perplexed.  “ I thought  the  gentleman  with  the  beard 
didn’t  like  her  at  all.” 

“ Why,  that’s  the  duke,  don’t  you  see.  Aunt  Wess’?  ” 
said  Laura  trying  to  explain.  “ And  he  forgives  her. 
I don’t  know  exactly.  Look  at  your  libretto.” 

“ — a conspiracy  of  the  Bears  . . . seventy  cents 
. . . and  naturally  he  busted.” 

The  mezzo-soprano,  the  confidante  of  the  prima 
donna,  entered,  and  a trio  developed  that  had  but  a 
mediocre  success.  At  the  end  the  baritone  abruptly 
drew  his  sword,  and  the  prima  donna  fell  to  her  knees, 
chanting : 

“ lo  iremo,  ahimS / " 


“And  now  he’s  mad  again,”  whispered  Aunt  Wess’, 
consulting  her  libretto,  all  at  sea  once  more.  “ I can’t 
understand.  She  says — the  opera  book  says  she  says, 
‘ I tremble.’  I don’t  see  why.” 

“ Look  now,”  said  Page,  “ here  comes  the  tenor. 
Now  they’re  going  to  have  it  out.” 

The  tenor,  hatless,  debouched  suddenly  upon  the 
scene,  and  furious,  addressed  himself  to  the  baritone, 
leaning  forward,  his  hands  upon  his  chest.  Though 
the  others  sang  in  Italian,  the  tenor,  a Parisian,  used 
the  French  book  continually,  and  now  villified  the 
baritone,  crying  out: 

“ 0 iraitre  infdme 
0 lache  ei  eoupabU  " 

“ I don’t  see  why  he  don’t  marry  the  young  lady 
and  be  done  with  it,”  commented  Aunt  Wess’. 

The  act  drew  to  its  close.  The  prima  donna  went 
through  her  “ great  scene/’  wherein  her  voice  climbed 


30 


The  Pit 


to  C in  alt,  holding  the  note  so  long  that  Aunt  Wess’ 
became  uneasy.  As  she  finished,  the  house  rocked 
with  applause,  and  the  soprano,  who  had  gone  out 
supported  by  her  confidante,  was  recalled  three  times. 
A duel  followed  between  the  baritone  and  tenor,  and 
the  latter,  mortally  wounded,  fell  into  the  arms  of  his 
friends  uttering  broken,  vehement  notes.  The  cho- 
rus— made  up  of  the  city  watch  and  town’s  people — 
crowded  in  upon  the  back  of  the  stage.  The  soprano 
and  her  confidante  returned.  The  basso,  a black- 
bearded,  bull-necked  man,  sombre,  mysterious,  parted 
the  chorus  to  right  and  left,  and  advanced  to  the 
footlights.  The  contralto,  dressed  as  a boy,  appeared. 
The  soprano  took  stage,  and  abruptly  the  closing 
scene  of  the  act  developed. 

The  violins  raged  and  wailed  in  unison,  all  the  bows 
moving  together  like  parts  of  a well-regulated  ma- 
chine. The  kettle-drums,  marking  the  cadences, 
rolled  at  exact  intervals.  The  director  beat  time 
furiously,  as  though  dragging  up  the  notes  and  chords 
with'  the  end  of  his  baton,  while  the  horns  and  cor- 
nets blared,  the  bass  viols  growled,  and  the  flageolets 
and  piccolos  lost  themselves  in  an  amazing  complica- 
tion of  liquid  gurgles  and  modulated  roulades. 

On  the  stage  every  one  was  singing.  The  soprano 
in  the  centre,  vocalised  in  her  highest  register,  bring- 
ing out  the  notes  with  vigorous  twists  of  her  entire 
body,  and  tossing  them  off  into  the  air  with  sharp 
flirts  of  her  head.  On  the  right,  the  basso,  scowling, 
could  be  heard  in  the  intervals  of  the  music  repeating 

“ II perfido,  I ingrato  ” 

while-  to  the  left  of  the  soprano,  the  baritone  in- 
toned indistinguishable,  sonorous  phrases,  striking 


A Story  of  Chicago 


31 


his  breast  and  pointing  to  the  fallen  tenor  with  his 
sword.  At  the  extreme  left  of  the  stage  the  con- 
tralto, in  tights  and  plush  doublet,  turned  to  the  au- 
dience, extending  her  hands,  or  flinging  back  her 
arms.  She  raised  her  eyebrows  with  each  high  note, 
and  sunk  her  chin  into  her  ruff  when  her  voice  de- 
scended. At  certain  intervals  her  notes  blended  with 
those  of  the  soprano’s  while  she  sang : 

“ Addio,  fdicith.  del  del  I” 

The  tenor,  raised  upon  one  hand,  his  shoulders  sup- 
ported by  his  friends,  sustained  the  theme  which  the 
soprano  led  with  the  words : 

" Je  me  meurs 
Ah  malheur 
Ah  je  souffre 
Mon  ame  s' envole." 

The  chorus  formed  a semi-circle  just  behind  him. 
The  women  on  one  side,  the  men  on  the  other.  They 
left  much  to  be  desired;  apparently  scraped  hastily 
together  from  heaven  knew  what  sources,  after  the 
manner  of  a management  suddenly  become  economi- 
cal. The  women  were  fat,  elderly,  and  painfully 
homely;  the  men  lean,  osseous,  and  distressed,  in  mis- 
fitting hose.  But  they  had  been  conscientiously 
drilled.  They  made  all  their  gestures  together, 
moved  in  masses  simultaneously,  and,  without  ceas- 
ing, chanted  over  and  over  again : 

“ 0 terror,  0 blas/ema." 

The  ‘hnale  commenced.  Everybody  on  the  stage 
took  a step  forward,  beginning  all  over  again  upon 

higher  key.  The  soprano’s  voice  thrilled  to  the  very 


32 


The  Pit 


chandelier.  The  orchestra  redoubled  its  efforts,  the 
director  beating  time  with  hands,  head,  and  body. 

“ II per fido,  I'ingrato^ 

thundered  the  basso. 

**  Ineffabil  mistero" 

answered  the  baritone,  striking  his  breast  and  point- 
ing with  his  sword;  while  all  at  once  the  soprano’s 
voice,  thrilling  out  again,  ran  up  an  astonishing  cres- 
cendo that  evoked  veritable  gasps  from  all  parts  of  the 
audience,  then  jumped  once  more  to  her  famous  C in  alt, 
and  held  it  long  enough  for  the  chorus  to  repeat 

“ 0 terror,  O blasfema  " 

four  times. 

Then  the  director’s  baton  descended  with  the  vio- 
lence of  a blow.  There  was  a prolonged  crash  of  har- 
mony, a final  enormous  chord,  to  which  every  voice 
and  every  instrument  contributed.  The  singers 
struck  tableau  attitudes,  the  tenor  fell  back  with  a 
last  wail: 

“ Je  me  meurs* 


and  the  soprano  fainted  into  the  arms  of  her  con- 
fidante. The  curtain  fell. 

The  house  roared  with  applause.  The  scene  was 
recalled  again  and  again.  The  tenor,  scrambling  to 
his  feet,  joined  hands  with  the  baritone,  soprano,  and 
other  artists,  and  all  bowed  repeatedly.  Then  the  cur- 
tain fell  for  the  last  time,  the  lights  of  the  great 
chandelier  clicked  and  blazed  up,  and  from  every 
quarter  of  the  house  came  the  cries  of  the  programme 
sellers : 


A Story  of  Chicago  33 

“ Opera  books.  Books  of  the  opera.  Words  and 
music  of  the  opera.” 

During  this,  the  last  entr'acte,  Laura  remained  in  the 
box  with  Mrs.  Cressler,  Corthell,  and  Jadwin.  The 
others  went  out  to  look  down  upon  the  foyer  from  a 
certain  balcony. 

In  the  box  the  conversation  turned  upon  stage  man- 
agement, and  Corthell  told  how,  in  “ L’Africaine,”  at 
the  Opera,  in  Paris,  the  entire  superstructure  of  the 
stage — wings,  drops,  and  backs — turned  when  Vasco 
da  Gama  put  the  ship  about.  Jadwin  having  criticised 
the  effect  because  none  of  the  actors  turned  with  it, 
was  voted  a Philistine  by  Mrs.  Cressler  and  Corthell. 
But  as  he  was  about  to  answer,  Mrs.  Cressler  turned 
to  the  artist,  passing  him  her  opera  glasses,  and  ask- 
ing: 

“ Who  are  those  people  down  there  in  the  third  row 
of  the  parquet — see,  on  the  middle  aisle — the  woman 
is  in  red.  Aren’t  those  the  Gretrys?” 

This  left  Jadwin  and  Laura  out  of  the  conversa- 
tion, and  the  capitalist  was  quick  to  seize  the  chance 
of  talking  to  her.  Soon  she  was  surprised  to  notice 
that  he  was  trying  hard  to  be  agreeable,  and  before 
they  had  exchanged  a dozen  sentences,  he  had  turned 
an  awkward  compliment.  She  guessed  by  his  manner 
that  paying  attention  to  young  girls  was  for  him  a 
thing  altogether  unusual.  Intuitively  she  divined 
that  she,  on  this,  the  very  first  night  of  their  ac- 
quaintance, had  suddenly  interested  him. 

^he  had  had  neither  opportunity  nor  inclination 
to  observe  him  closely  during  their  interview  in  the 
vestibule,  but  now,  as  she  sat  and  listened  to  him 
talk,  she  could  not  help  being  a little  attracted.  He 
was  a heavy-built  man,  would  have  made  two  of  Cor- 
thell, and  his  hands  were  large  and  broad,  the  hands  pi 
3 


34 


The  Pit 


a man  of  affairs,  who  knew  how  to  grip,  and,  above  all, 
how  to  hang  on.  Those  broad,  strong  hands,  and 
keen,  calm  eyes  would  enfold  and  envelop  a Purpose 
with  tremendous  strength,  and  they  would  persist 
and  persist  and  persist,  unswerving,  unwavering,  un- 
tiring, till  the  Purpose  was  driven  home.  And  the 
two  long,  lean,  fibrous  arms  of  him ; what  a reach 
they  could  attain,  and  how  wide  and  huge  and  even 
formidable  would  be  their  embrace  of  affairs.  One  of 
those  great  manoeuvres  of  a fellow  money-captain  had 
that  very  day  been  concluded,  the  Helmick  failure, 
and  between  the  chords  and  bars  of  a famous  opera 
men  talked  in  excited  whispers,  and  one  great  leader 
lay  at  that  very  moment,  broken  and  spent,  fighting 
with  his  last  breath  for  bare  existence.  Jadwin  had 
seen  it  all.  Uninvolved  in  the  crash,  he  had  none  the 
less  been  close  to  it,  watching  it,  in  touch  with  it,  fore- 
seeing each  successive  collapse  by  which  it  reeled  fatally 
to  the  final  catastrophe.  The  voices  of  the  two  men 
that  had  so  annoyed  her  in  the  early  part  of  the  even- 
ing were  suddenly  raised  agairTj 

“ It  was  terrific,  there  on  the  floor  of  the  Board 

this  morning.  By  the  Lord!  they  fought  each  other 
when  the  Bears  began  throwing  the  grain  at  ’em — in 
carload  lots.” 

And  abruptly,  midway  between  two  phases  of  that 
music-drama,  of  passion  and  romance,  there  came  to 
Laura  the  swift  and  vivid  impression  of  that  other 
drama  that  simultaneously — even  at  that  very  mo- 
ment— was  working  itself  out  close  at  hand,  equally 
picturesque,  equally  romantic,  equally  passionate ; 
but  more  than  that,  real,  actual,  modern,  a thing  in 
the  very  heart  of  the  very  life  in  which  she  moved. 
And  here  he  sat,  this  Jadwin,  quiet,  in  evening  dress, 
listening  good-naturedly  to  this  beautiful  music,  for 


A Story  of  Chicago 


35 


which  he  did  not  care,  to  this  rant  and  fustian,  watch- 
ing quietly  all  this  posing  and  attitudinising.  How 
small  and  petty  it  must  all  seem  to  him! 

Laura  found  time  to  be  astonished.  What!  She 
had  first  met  this  man  haughtily,  in  all  the  panoply 
of  her  “ grand  manner,”  and  had  promised  herself  that 
she  would  humble  him,  and  pay  him  for  that  first  mis- 
trustful stare  at  her.  And  now,  behold,  she  was  study- 
ing him,  and  finding  the  study  interesting.  Out  of  har- 
mony though  she  knew  him  to  be  with  those  fine 
emotions  of  hers  of  the  early  part  of  the  evening,  she 
nevertheless  found  much  in  him  to  admire.  It  was  al- 
ways just  like  that.  She  told  herself  that  she  was  for- 
ever doing  the  unexpected  thing,  the  inconsistent  thing. 
Women  were  queer  creatures,  mysterious  even  to  them- 
selves. 

“ I am  so  pleased  that  you  are  enjoying  it  all,”  said 
Corthell’s  voice  at  her  shoulder.  “ I knew  you  would. 
There  is  nothing  like  music  such  as  this  to  appeal  to 
the  emotions,  the  heart — and  with  your  tempera- 


ment- 


Straightway  he  made  her  feel  her  sex.  Now  she 
was  just  a woman  again,  with  all  a woman’s  limita- 
tions, and  her  relations  with  Corthell  could  never  be 
— so  she  realised — any  other  than  sex-relations.  With 
Jadwin  somehow  it  had  been  different.  She  had  felt  his 
manhood  more  than  her  womanhood,  her  sex  side. 
And  between  them  it  was  more  a give-and-take  affair, 
more  equality,  more  companionship.  Corthell  spoke' 
only  of  her  heart  and  to  her  heart,  ^ut  Jadwin  made 
her  feel — or  rather  she  made  herself  feel  when  he 
talked  to  her — that  she  had  a head  as  well  as  a heai 


And  the  last  act  of  the  opera  did  not  wholly  absorb 
her  attention.  The  artists  came  and  went,  the  orches- 
tra wailed  and  boomed,  the  audience  applauded,  and 


36 


The  Pit 


in  the  end  the  tenor,  fired  by  a sudden  sense  of  duty 
and  of  stern  obligation,  tore  himself  from  the  arms 
of  the  soprano,  and  calling  out  upon  remorseless  fate 
and  upon  heaven,  and  declaiming  about  the  vanity  of 
glory,  and  his  heart  that  broke  yet  disdained  tears, 
allowed  himself  to  be  dragged  off  the  scene  by  his 
friend  the  basso.  For  the  fifth  time  during  the  piece 
the  soprano  fainted  into  the  arms  of  her  long-suffer- 
ing confidante.  The  audience,  suddenly  remember- 
ing hats  and  wraps,  bestirred  itself,  and  many  par- 
ties were  already  upon  their  feet  and  filing  out  at  the 
time  the  curtain  fell. 

The  Cresslers  and  their  friends  were  among  the  last 
to  regain  the  vestibule.  But  as  they  came  out  from 
the  foyer,  where  the  first  draughts  of  outside  air  be- 
gan to  make  themselves  felt,  there  were  exclamations : 

“ It’s  raining.” 

“ Why,  it’s  raining  right  down.” 

It  was  true.  Abruptly  the  weather  had  moderated, 
and  the  fine,  dry  snow  that  had  been  falling  since 
early  evening  had  changed  to  a lugubrious  drizzle.  A 
wave  of  consternation  invaded  the  vestibule  for  those 
who  had  not  come  in  carriages,  or  whose  carriages 
had  not  arrived.  Tempers  were  lost;  women,  cloaked 
to  the  ears,  their  heads  protected  only  by  fichus  or 
mantillas,  quarrelled  with  husbands  or  cousins  or 
brothers  over  the  question  of  umbrellas.  The  ves- 
tibules were  crowded  to  suffocation,  and  the  aigrettes 
nodded  and  swayed  again  in  alternate  gusts,  now  of 
moist,  chill  atmosphere  from  without,  and  now  of 
stale,  hot  air  that  exhaled  in  long  puffs  from  the  in- 
side doors  of  the  theatre  itself.  Here  and  there  in  the 
press,  footmen,  their  top  hats  in  rubber  cases,  their 
hands  full  of  umbrellas,  searched  anxiously  for  their 
masters. 


A Story  of  Chicago 


37 


Outside  upon  the  sidewalks  and  by  the  curbs,  an 
apparently  inextricable  confusion  prevailed;  police- 
men with  drawn  clubs  laboured  and  objurgated : anx- 
ious, preoccupied  young  men,  their  opera  hats  and 
gloves  beaded  with  rain,  hurried  to  and  fro,  search- 
ing for  their  carriages.  At  the  edge  of  the  awning, 
the  caller,  a gigantic  fellow  in  gold-faced  uniform, 
shouted  the  numbers  in  a roaring,  sing-song  that 
dominated  every  other  sound.  Coachmen,  their  wet 
rubber  coats  reflecting  the  lamplight,  called  back  and 
forth,  furious  quarrels  broke  out  between  hansom 
drivers  and  the  police  officers,  steaming  horses  with 
jingling  bits,  their  backs  covered  with  dark  green 
cloths,  plunged  and  pranced,  carriage  doors  banged, 
and  the  roll  of  wheels  upon  the  pavement  was  as  the 
reverberation  of  artillery  caissons. 

“ Get  your  carriage,  sir  ? ” cried  a ragged,  half- 
grown  arab  at  Cressler’s  elbow. 

“ Hurry  up,  then,”  said  Cressler.  Then,  raising 
his  voice,  for  the  clamour  was  increasing  with  every 
second:  “What’s  your  number,  Laura?  You  girls 
first.  Ninety-three?  Get  that,  boy?  Ninety-three. 
Quick  now.” 

The  carriage  appeared.  Hastily  they  said  good-by ; 
hastily  Laura  expressed  to  Mrs.  Cressler  her  apprecia- 
tion and  enjoyment.  Corthell  saw  them  to  the  car- 
riage, and  getting  in  after  them  shut  the  door  behind 
him.  They  departed. 

Laura  sank  back  in  the  cool  gloom  of  the  carriage’s 
interior  redolent  of  damp  leather  and  upholstery. 

“ What  an  evening ! What  an  evening ! ” she  mur- 
mured. 

On  the  way  home  both  she  and  Page  appealed  to 
the  artist,  who  knew  the  opera  well,  to  hum  or  whistle 
for  them  the  arias  that  had  pleased  them  most.  Each 


The  Pit 


• 38 

time  they  were  enthusiastic.  Yes,  yes,  that  was  the 
air.  Wasn’t  it  pretty,  wasn’t  it  beautiful? 

But  Aunt  Wess’  was  still  unsatisfied. 

“ I don’t  see  yet,”  she  complained,  “ why  the  young 
man,  the  one  with  the  pointed  beard,  didn’t  marry  that 
lady  and  be  done  with  it.  Just  as  soon  as  they’d 
seem  to  have  it  all  settled,  he’d  begin  to  take  on  again, 
and  strike  his  breast  and  go  away.  I declare,  I think 
it  was  all  kind  of  foolish.” 

“ Why,  the  duke — don’t  you  see.  The  one  who  sang 
bass ” Page  laboured  to  explain. 

“ Oh,  I didn’t  like  him  at  all,”  said  Aunt  Wess’. 
“ He  stamped  around  so.”  But  the  audience  itself 
had  interested  her,  and  the  decollete  gowns  had  been 
particularly  impressing. 

“ I never  saw  such  dressing  in  all  my  life,”  she  de- 
clared. “ And  that  woman  in  the  box  next  ours. 
Well!  did  you  notice  that?”  She  raised  her  eye- 
brows and  set  her  lips  together.  “ Well,  I don’t  want 
to  say  anything.” 

The  carriage  rolled  on  through  the  darkened  down- 
town streets,  towards  the  North  Side,  where  the  Dear- 
borns lived.  They  could  hear  the  horses  plashing 
through  the  layer  of  slush — mud,  half-melted  snow 
and  rain — that  encumbered  the  pavement.  In  the 
gloom  the  girls’  wraps  glowed  pallid  and  diaphanous. 
The  rain  left  long,  slanting  parallels  on  the  carriage 
windows.  They  passed  on  down  Wabash  Avenue,  and 
crossed  over  to  State  Street  and  Clarke  Street,  dark, 
deserted. 

Laura,  after  a while,  lost  in  thought,  spoke  but 
little.  It  had  been  a great  evening — because  of  other 
things  than  mere  music.  Corthell  had  again  asked 
her  to  marry  him,  and  she,  carried  away  by  the  ex- 
citement of  the  moment,  had  answered  him  encourag* 


A Story  of  Chicago 


39 


ingly.  On  the  heels  of  this  she  had  had  that  little  talk 
with  the  capitalist  Jadwin,  and  somehow  since  then 
she  had  been  steadied,  calmed.  The  cold  air  and  the 
rain  in  her  face  had  cooled  her  flaming  cheeks  and  hot 
temples.  She  asked  herself  now  if  she  did  really,  hon- 
estly love  the  artist.  No,  she  did  not;  really  and  hon- 
estly she  did  not;  and  now  as  the  carriage  rolled  on 
through  the  deserted  streets  of  the  business  districts, 
she  knew  very  well  that  she  did  not  want  to  marry 
him.  She  had  done  him  an  injustice;  but  in  the  matter 
of  righting  herself  with  him,  correcting  his  false  im- 
pression, she  was  willing  to  procrastinate.  She  wanted 
him  to  love  her,  to  pay  her  all  those  innumerable  little 
attentions  which  he  managed  with  such  faultless  deli- 
cacy. To  say : “ No-,  Mr.  Corthell,  I do  not  love  you, 
I will  never  be  your  wife,”  would — this  time — be  final. 
He  would  go  away,  and  she  had  no  intention  of  allow- 
ing him  to  do  that. 

But  abruptly  her  reflections  were  interrupted. 
While  she  thought  it  all  over  she  had  been  looking 
out  of  the  carriage  window  through  a little  space 
where  she  had  rubbed  the  steam  from  the  pane. 
Now,  all  at  once,  the  strange  appearance  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood as  the  carriage  turned  north  from  out  Jack- 
son  Street  into  La  Salle,  forced  itself  upon  her  atten- 
tion. She  uttered  an  exclamation. 

The  office  buildings  on  both  sides  of  the  street  were 
lighted  from  basement  to  roof.  Through  the  windows 
she  could  get  glimpses  of  clerks  and  book-keepers 
in  shirt-sleeves  bending  over  desks.  Every  office  was 
open,  and  every  one  of  them  full  of  a feverish  activity. 
The  sidewalks  were  almost  as  crowded  as  though  at 
noontime.  Messenger  boys  ran  to  and  fro,  and  groups 
of  men  stood  on  the  corners  in  earnest  conversation. 


The  Pit 


40 

The  whole  neighbourhood  was  alive,  and  this,  though 
it  was  close  upon  one  o’clock  in  the  morning! 

“Why,  what  is  it  all?”  she  murmured. 

Corthell  could  not  explain,  but  all  at  once  Page 
cried : 

“ Oh,  oh,  I know.  See  this  is  Jackson  and  La  Salle 
streets.  Landry  was  telling  me.  The  ‘ commission 
district,’  he  called  it.  And  these  are  the  brokers’ 
offices  working  overtime — that  Helmick  deal,  you 
know.” 

Laura  looked,  suddenly  stupefied.  Here  it  was, 
then,  that  other  drama,  that  other  tragedy,  working 
on  there  furiously,  fiercely  through  the  night,  while 
she  and  all  those  others  had  sat  there  in  that  atmos- 
phere of  flowers  and  perfume,  listening  to  music. 
Suddenly  it  loomed  portentous  in  the  eye  of  her  mind, 
terrible,  tremendous.  Ah,  this  drama  of  the  “ Pro- 
vision Pits,”  where  the  rush  of  millions  of  bushels  of 
grain,  and  the  clatter  of  millions  of  dollars,  and  the 
tramping  and  the  wild  shouting  of  thousands  of  men 
filled  all  the  air  with  the  noise  of  battle!  Yes, 
here  was  drama  in  deadly  earnest — drama  and  trag- 
edy and  death,  and  the  jar  of  mortal  fighting.  And  the 
echoes  of  it  invaded  the  very  sanctuary  of  art,  and 
cut  athwart  the  music  of  Italy  and  che  cadence  of 
polite  conversation,  and  the  shock  of  it  endured  when 
all  the  world  should  have  slept,  and  galvanised  into 
vivid  life  all  these  sombre  piles  of  office  buildings.  It 
was  dreadful,  this  labour  through  the  night.  It  had  all 
the  significance  of  field  hospitals  after  the  battle — hos- 
pitals and  the  tents  of  commanding  generals.  The 
wounds  of  the  day  were  being  bound  up,  the  dead  were 
being  counted,  while,  shut  in  their  headquarters,  the 
captains  and  the  commanders  drew  the  plans  for  the 
grapple  of  armies  that  was  to  recommence  with  day- 
light. 


41 


A Story  of  Chicago 

“Yes,  yes,  that’s  just  what  it  is,”  continued  Page. 
“ See,  there’s  the  Rookery,  and  there’s  the  Constable 
Building,  where  Mr.  Helmick  has  his  offices.  Landry 
showed  me  it  all  one  day.  And,  look  back.”  She 
raised  the  flap  that  covered  the  little  window  at  the 
back  of  the  carriage.  “ See,  down  there,  at  the  end 
of  the  street.  There’s  the  Board  of  Trade  Building, 
where  the  grain  speculating  is  done, — where  the  wheat 
pits  and  corn  pits  are.” 

Laura  turned  and  looked  back.  On  either  side  of 
the  vista  in  converging  lines  stretched  the  blazing  of- 
fice buildings.  But  over  the  end  of  the  street  the  lead- 
coloured  sky  was  rifted  a little.  A long,  faint  bar  of 
light  stretched  across  the  prospect,  and  silhouetted 
against  this  rose  a •sombre  mass,  unbroken  by  any 
lights,  rearing  a black  and  formidable  fagade  against 
the  blur  of  light  behind  it. 

And  'this  was  her  last  impression  of  the  evening. 
The  lighted  office  buildings,  the  murk  of  rain,  the 
haze  of  light  in  the  heavens,  and  raised  against  it 
the  pile  of  the  Board  of  Trade  Building,  black,  grave, 
monolithic,  crouching  on  its  foundations,  like  a mon- 
strous sphinx  with  blind  eyes,  silent,  grave, — crouching 
there  without  a sound,  without  sign  of  life  under  the 
night  and  the  drifting  veil  of  rainTl 


II 


Laura  Dearborn’s  native  town  was  Barrington,  in 
Worcester  County,  Massachusetts.  Both  she  and  Page 
had  been  born  there,  and  there  had  lived  until  the  death 
of  their  father,  at  a time  when  Page  was  ready  for  the 
High  School.  The  mother,  a North  Carolina  girl,  had 
died  long  before. 

Laura’s  education  had  been  unusual.  After  leaving 
the  High  School  her  father  had  for  four  years  allowed 
her  a private  tutor  (an  impecunious  graduate  from  the 
Harvard  Theological  School).  She  was  ambitious,  a 
devoted  student,  and  her  instructor’s  task  was  rather 
to  guide  than  to  enforce  her  application.  She  soon 
acquired  a reading  knowledge  of  French,  and  knew  her 
Racine  in  the  original  almost  as  well  as  her  Shake- 
speare. Literature  became  for  her  an  actual  passion. 
She  delved  into  Tennyson  and  the  Victorian  poets,  and 
soon  was  on  terms  of  intimacy  with  the  poets  and  es- 
sayists of  New  England.  The  novelists  of  the  day  she 
ignored  almost  completely,  and  voluntarily.  Only  oc- 
casionally, and  then  as  a concession,  she  permitted  her- 
self a reading  of  Mr.  Howells. 

Moderately  prosperous  while  he  himself  was  conduct- 
ing his  little  mill.  Dearborn  had  not  been  able  to  put  by 
any  money  to  speak  of,  and  when  Laura  and  the  local 
lawyer  had  come  to  close  up  the  business,  to  dispose 
of  the  mill,  and  to  settle  the  claims  against  what  the 
lawyer  grandiloquently  termed  “ the  estate,”  there  was 
just  enough  money  left  to  pay  for  Page’s  tickets  to 
Chicago  and  a course  of  tuition  for  her  at  a seminary. 


A Story  of  Chicago 


43 


The  Cresslers  on  the  event  of  Dearborn’s  death  had 
advised  both  sisters  to  come  West,  and  had  pledged 
themselves  to  look  after  Page  during  the  period  of  her 
schooling.  Laura  had  sent  the  little  girl  on  at  once, 
but  delayed  taking  the  step  herself. 

Fortunately,  the  two  sisters  were  not  obliged  to  live 
upon  their  inheritance.  Dearborn  himself  had  a sister 
— a twin  of  Aunt  Wess’ — who  had  married  a wealthy 
woollen  merchant  of  Boston,  and  this  one,  long  since, 
had  provided  for  the  two  girls.  A large  sum  had  been 
set  aside,  which  was  to  be  made  over  to  them  when  the 
father  died.  For  years  now  this  sum  had  been  accumu- 
lating interest.  So  that  when  Laura  and  Page  faced 
the  world,  alone,  upon  the  steps  of  the  Barrington  ceme- 
tery, they  had  the  assurance  that,  at  least,  they  were  in- 
dependent. 

For  two  years,  in  the  solidly  built  colonial  dwelling, 
with  its  low  ceilings  and  ample  fireplaces,  where  once 
the  minute-men  had  swung  their  kettles,  Laura,  alone, 
thought  it  all  over.  Mother  and  father  were  dead; 
even  the  Boston  aunt  was  dead.  Of  all  her  relations. 
Aunt  Wess’  alone  remained.  Page  was  at  her  finish- 
ing school  at  Geneva  Lake,  within  two  hours  of  Chi- 
cago. The  Cresslers  were  the  dearest  friends  of  the 
orphan  girls.  Aunt  Wess’,  herself  a widow,  living  also 
in  Chicago,  added  her  entreaties  to  Mrs.  Cressler’s.  All 
things  seemed  to  point  her  westward,  all  things  seemed 
to  indicate  that  one  phase  of  her  life  was  ended. 

Then,  too,  she  had  her  ambitions.  These  hardly  took 
definite  shape  in  her  mind ; but  vaguely  she  chose  to  see 
herself,  at  some  far-distant  day,  an  actress,  a trage- 
..dienne,  playing  the  roles  of  Shakespe'afe^s  heroines. 
This  idea  of  hers  was  more  a desire  than  an  ambition, 
but  it  could  not  be  realised  in  Barrington,  Massachu- 
setts. For  a year  she  temporised,  procrastinated,  loth 


44 


The  Pit 


to  leave  the  old  home,  loth  to  leave  the  grave  in  the 
cemetery  back  of  the  Methodist-Episcopal  chapel. 
Twice  during  this  time  she  visited  Page,  and  each  time 
the  great  grey  city  threw  the  spell  of  its  fascination 
about  her.  Each  time  she  returned  to  Barrington  the 
town  dwindled  in  her  estimation.  It  was  picturesque, 
but  lamentably  narrow.  The  life  was  barren,  the  “ New 
England  spirit  ” prevailed  in  all  its  severity ; and  this 
spirit  seemed  to  her  a veritable  cult,  a sort  of  religion, 
wherein  the  Old  Maid  was  the  priestess,  the  Spinster 
the  officiating  devotee,  the  thing  worshipped  the  Great 
Unbeautiful,  and  the  ritual  unremitting,  unrelenting 
Housework.  She  detested  it. 

That  she  was  an  Episcopalian,  and  preferred  to  read 
her  prayers  rather  than  to  listen  to  those  written  and 
memorised  by  the  Presbyterian  minister,  seemed  to  be 
regarded  as  a relic  of  heathenish  rites — a thing  almost 
cannibalistic.  When  she  elected  to  engage  a woman  and 
a “ hired  man  ” to  manage  her  house,  she  felt  the  dis- 
approbation of  the  entire  village,  as  if  she  had  sunk 
into  some  decadent  and  enervating  Lower-Empire  de- 
generacy. 

The  crisis  came  when  Laura  travelled  alone  to  Bos- 
ton to  hear  Modjeska  in  “ Marie  Stuart  ” and  “ Mac- 
beth,” and  upon  returning  full  of  enthusiasm,  allowed 
it  to  be  understood  that  she  had  a half-formed  desire 
of  emulating  such  an  example.  A group  of  lady-dea- 
conesses,  headed  by  the  Presbyterian  minister,  called 
upon  her,  with  some  intention  of  reasoning  and  labour- 
ing with  her. 

They  got  no  farther  than  the  statement  of  the  cause 
of  this  visit.  The  spirit  and  temper  of  the  South,  that 
she  had  from  her  mother,  flamed  up  in  Laura  at  last, 
and  the  members  of  the  “ committee,”  before  they  were 
well  aware,  came  to  themselves  in  the  street  outside 


A Story  of  Chicago 


45 


the  front  gate,  dazed  and  bewildered,  staring  at  each 
other,  all  confounded  and  stunned  by  the  violence  of  an 
outbreak  of  long-repressed  emotion  and  long-restrained 
anger,  that  like  an  actual  physical  force  had  swept  them 
out  of  the  house. 

At  the  same  moment  Laura,  thrown  across  her  bed, 
wept  with  a vehemence  that  shook  her  from  head  to 
foot.  But  she  had  not  the  least  compunction  for  what 
she  had  said,  and  before  the  month  was  out  had  said 
good-by  to  Barrington  forever,  and  was  on  her  way  to 
Chicago,  henceforth  to  be  her  home. 

A house  was  bought  on  the  North  Side,  and  it  was 
arranged  that  Aunt  Wess’  should  live  with  her  two 
nieces.  Pending  the  installation  Laura  and  Page  lived 
at  a little  family  hotel"  in  the  same  neighbourhood.  The  ' 
Cresslers’  invitation  to  join  the  theatre  party  at  the 
Auditorium  had  fallen  inopportunely  enough,  squarely  ■ 
in  the  midst  of  the  ordeal  of  moving  in.  Indeed  the  two  ' 
girls  had  already  passed  one  night  in  the  new  home, 
and  they  must  dress  for  the  affair  by  lamplight  in  their 
unfurnished  quarters  and  under  inconceivable  difficul- 
ties. Only  the  lure  of  Italian  opera,  heard  from  a box, 
could  have  tempted  them  to  have  accepted  the  invitation 
at  such  a time  and  under  such  circumstances. 

The  morning  after  the  opera,  Laura  woke  in  her  bed 
— almost  the  only  article  of  furniture  that  was  in  place 
in  the  whole  house — with  the  depressing  consciousness 
of  a hard  day’s  work  at  hand.  Outside  it  was  still  rain- 
ing, the  room  was  cold,  heated  only  by  an  inadequate  oil 
stove,  and  through  the  slats  of  the  inside  shutters,  which, 
pending  the  hanging  of  the  curtains  they  had  been 
obliged  to  close,  was  filtering  a gloomy  light  of  a wet 
Chicago  morning. 

It  was  all  very  mournful,  and  she  regretted  now  that 
she  had  not  abided  by  her  original  decision  to  remain 


46 


The  Pit 


at  the  hotel  until  the  new  house  was  ready  for  occu- 
pancy. But  it  had  happened  that  their  month  at  the 
hotel  was  just  up,  and  rather  than  engage  the  rooms  for 
another  four  weeks  she  had  thought  it  easier  as  well  as 
cheaper  to  come  to  the  house.  It  was  all  a new  experi- 
ence for  her,  and  she  had  imagined  that  everything  could 
be  moved  in,  put  in  place,  and  the  household  running 
smoothly  in  a week’s  time. 

She  sat  up  in  bed,  hugging  her  shoulders  against  the 
chill  of  the  room  and  looking  at  her  theatre  gown,  that 
— in  default  of  a clean  closet — she  had  hung  from  the 
gas  fixture  the  night  before.  From  the  direction  of  the 
kitchen  came  the  sounds  of  the  newly  engaged  “ girl  ” 
making  the  fire  for  breakfast,  while  through  the  register 
a thin  wisp  of  blue  smoke  curled  upward  to  prove  that 
the  “ hired  man  ” was  tinkering  with  the  unused  furnace. 
The  room  itself  was  in  lamentable  confusion.  Crates 
and  packing  boxes  encumbered  the  uncarpeted  floor; 
chairs  wrapped  in  excelsior  and  jute  were  piled  one 
upon  another;  a roll  of  carpet  leaned  in  one  corner  and 
a pile  of  mattresses  occupied  another. 

As  Laura  considered  the  prospect  she  realised  her 
blunder. 

“ Why,  and  oh,  why,”  she  murmured,  “ didn’t  we  stay 
at  the  hotel  till  all  this  was  straightened  out?  ” 

But  in  an  adjoining  room  she  heard  Aunt  Wess’  stir- 
ring. She  turned  to  Page,  who  upon  the  pillows  beside 
her  still  slept,  her  stocking  around  her  neck  as  a guar- 
antee against  draughts. 

“ Page,  Page!  Wake  up,  girlie.  It’s  late,  and  there’s 
worlds  to  do.” 

Page  woke  blinking. 

“ Oh,  it’s  freezing  cold,  Laura.  Let’s  light  the  oil 
stove  and  stay  in  bed  till  the  room  gets  warm.  Oh,  dear, 
aren’t  you  sleepy,  and,  oh,  wasn’t  last  night  lovely? 


A Story  of  Chicago 


47 


Which  one  of  us  will  get  up  to  light  the  stove?  We’ll 
count  for  it.  Lie  down,  sissie,  dear,”  she  begged, 
“ you’re  letting  all  the  cold  air  in.” 

Laura  complied,  and  the  two  sisters,  their  noses  all 
but  touching,  the  bedclothes  up  to  their  ears,  put  their 
arms  about  each  other  to  keep  the  warmer. 

Amused  at  the  foolishness,  they  “ counted  ” to  decide 
as  to  who  should  get  up  to  light  the  oil  stove.  Page 
beginning: 

“ Eeny — meeny — myny — mo ” 

But  before  the  “ count  ” was  decided  Aunt  Wess’ 
came  in,  already  dressed,  and  in  a breath  the  two  girls 
implored  her  to  light  the  stove.  While  she  did  so, 
Aunt  Wess’  remarked,  with  the  alacrity  of  a woman 
who  observes  the  difficulties  of  a proceeding  in  which 
she  has  no  faith : 

“ I don’t  believe  that  hired  girl  knows  her  business. 
She  says  now  she  can’t  light  a fire  in  that  stove.  My 
word,  Laura,  I do  believe  you’ll  have  enough  of  all  this 
before  you’re  done.  You  know  I advised  you  from  the 
very  first  to  take  a flat.” 

“ Nonsense,  Aunt  Wess’,”  answered  Laura,  good- 
naturedly.  “ We’ll  work  it  out  all  right.  I know  what’s 
the  matter  with  that  range.  I’ll  be  right  down  and  see 
to  it  so  soon  as  I’m  dressed.” 

It  was  nearly  ten  o’clock  before  breakfast,  such  as  it 
was,  was  over.  They  ate  it  on  the  kitchen  table,  with 
the  kitchen  knives  and  forks,  and  over  the  meal.  Page 
having  remarked:  “Well,  what  will  we  do  first?”  dis- 
cussed the  plan  of  campaign. 

“ Landry  Court  does  not  have  to  work  to-day — he 
told  me  why,  but  I’ve  forgotten — and  he  said  he  was 
coming  up  to  help,”  observed  Laura,  and  at  once  Aunt 
Wess’  smiled.  Landry  Court  was  openly  and  strenu- 
ously in  love  with  Laura,  and  no  one  of  the  new  house- 


48 


The  Pit 


hold  ignored  the  fact.  Aunt  Wess’  chose  to  consider 
the  affair  as  ridiculous,  and  whenever  the  subject  was 
mentioned  spoke  of  Landry  as  “ that  boy.” 

Page,  however,  bridled  with  seriousness  as  often  as 
the  matter  came  up.  Yes,  that  was  all  very  well,  but 
Landry  was  a decent,  hard-working  young  fellow,  with 
all  his  way  to  make  and  no  time  to  waste,  and  if  Laura 
didn’t  mean  that  it  should  come  to  anything  it  wasn’t 
very  fair  to  him  to  keep  him  dangling  along  like  that. 

“ I guess,”  Laura  was  accustomed  to  reply,  looking 
significantly  at  Aunt  Wess’,  “ that  our  little  girlie  has 
a little  bit  of  an  eye  on  a certain  hard-working  young 
fellow  herself.”  And  the  answer  invariably  roused 
Page. 

“ Now,  Laura,”  she  would  cry,  her  eyes  snapping,  her 
breath  coming  fast.  “ Now,  Laura,  that  isn’t  right  at 
all,  and  you  know  I don’t  like  it,  and  you  just  say  it 
because  you  know  it  makes  me  cross.  I won’t  have 
you  insinuate  that  I would  run  after  any  man  or  care 
in  the  least  whether  he’s  in  love  or  not.  I just  guess 
Pve  got  some  self-respect;  and  as  for  Landry  Court, 
we’re  no  more  nor  less  than  just  good  friends,  and  I 
appreciate  his  business  talents  and  the  way  he  rustles 
’round,  and  he  merely  respects  me  as  a friend,  and  it 
don’t  go  any  farther  than  that.  ‘ An  eye  on  him,’  I do 
declare!  As  if  I hadn’t  yet  to  see  the  man  Pd  so  much 
as  look  at  a second  time.” 

And  Laura,  remembering  her  “ Shakespeare,”  was 
ever  ready  with  the  words : 

“ The  lady  doth  protest  too  much,  methinks.” 

Just  after  breakfast,  in  fact,  Landry  did  appear. 

“ Now,”  he  began,  with  a long  breath,  addressing 
Laura,  who  was  unwrapping  the  pieces  of  cut  glass  and 
bureau  ornaments  as  Page  passed  them  to  her  from 


49 


A Story  of  Chicago 

the  depths  of  a crate.  “ Now,  I’ve  done  a lot  already. 
That’s  what  made  me  late.  I’ve  ordered  your  news- 
paper sent  here,  and  I’ve  telephoned  the  hotel  to  for- 
ward any  mail  that  comes  for  you  to  this  address,  and 
I sent  word  to  the  gas  company  to  have  your  gas  turned 
on ” 

“ Oh,  that’s  good,”  said  Laura. 

“Yes,  I thought  of  that;  the  man  will  be  up  right 
away  to  fix  it,  and  I’ve  ordered  a cake  of  ice  left  here 
every  day,  and  told  the  telephone  company  that  you 
wanted  a telephone  put  in.  Oh,  yes,  and  the  bottled- 
milk  man — I stopped  in  at  a dairy  on  the  way  up.  Now, 
what  do  we  do  first  ? ” 

He  took  off  his  coat,  rolled  up  his  shirt  sleeves,  and 
plunged  into  the  confusion  of  crates  and  boxes  that 
congested  the  rooms  and  hallways  on  the  first  floor  of 
the  house.  The  two  sisters  could  hear  him  attacking 
his  task  with  tremendous  blows  of  the  kitchen  hammer. 
From  time  to  time  he  called  up  the  stairway: 

“ Hey,  what  do  you  want  done  with  this  jardiniere 
thing?  . . . Where  does  this  hanging  lamp  go, 
Laura?  ” 

Laura,  having  unpacked  all  the  cut-glass  ornaments, 
came  down-stairs,  and  she  and  Landry  set  about  hang- 
ing the  parlour  curtains. 

Landry  fixed  the  tops  of  the  window  mouldings  with 
a piercing  eye,  his  arms  folded. 

“ I see,  I see,”  he  answered  to  Laura’s  explanations. 
“ I see.  Now,  where’s  a screw-driver,  and  a step-ladder? 
Yes,  and  I’ll  have  to  have  some  brass  nails,  and  your 
hired  man  must  let  me  have  that  hammer  again.” 

He  sent  the  cook  after  the  screw-driver,  called  the 
hired  man  from  the  furnace,  shouted  upstairs  to  Page 
to  ask  for  the  whereabouts  of  the  brass  nails,  and  dele- 
gated Laura  to  steady  the  step-ladder. 


4 


50 


The  Pit 


“ Now,  Landry,”  directed  Laura,  “ those  rods  want 
to  be  about  three  inches  from  the  top.” 

“ Well,”  he  said,  climbing  up,  “ I’ll  mark  the  place 
with  the  screw  and  you  tell  me  if  it  is  right.” 

She  stepped  back,  her  head  to  one  side. 

“ No;  higher,  Landry.  There,  that’s  about  it — or  a 
little  lower — so.  That’s  just  right.  Come  down  now 
and  help  me  put  the  hooks  in.” 

They  pulled  a number  of  sofa  cushions  together  and 
sat  down  on  the  floor  side  by  side,  Landry  snapping  the 
hooks  in  place  where  Laura  had  gathered  the  pleats. 
Inevitably  his  hands  touched  hers,  and  their  heads  drew 
close  together.  Page  and  Mrs.  Wessels  were  unpack- 
ing linen  in  the  upstairs  hall.  The  cook  and  hired  man 
raised  a great  noise  of  clanking  stove  lids  and  grates  as 
they  wrestled  with  the  range  in  the  kitchen. 

“ Well,”  said  Landry,  “ you  are  going  to  have  a pretty 
home.”  He  was  meditating  a phrase  of  which  he  pur- 
posed delivering  himself  when  opportunity  afforded.  It 
had  to  do  with  Laura’s  eyes,  and  her  ability  of  under- 
standing him.  She  understood  him;  she  was  to  know 
that  he  thought  so,  that  it  was  of  immense  importance 
to  him.  It  was  thus  he  conceived  of  the  manner  of  love 
making.  The  evening  before  that  palavering  artist 
seemed  to  have  managed  to  monopolise  her  about  all 
of  the  time.  Now  it  was  his  turn,  and  this  day  of  house- 
hold affairs,  of  little  domestic  commotions,  appeared  to 
him  to  be  infinitely  more  desirous  than  the  pomp  and 
formality  of  evening  dress  and  opera  boxes.  This  morn- 
ing the  relations  between  himself  and  Laura  seemed 
charming,  intimate,  unconventional,  and  full  of  oppor- 
tunities. Never  had  she  appeared  prettier  to  him.  She 
wore  a little  pink  flannel  dressing-sack  with  full  sleeves, 
and  her  hair,  carelessly  twisted  into  great  piles,  was  in 
a beautiful  disarray,  curling  about  her  cheeks  and  ears. 


A Story  of  Chicago  51 

“ I didn’t  see  anything  of  you  at  all  last  night,”  he 
grumbled. 

“ Well,  you  didn’t  try.” 

“ Oh,  it  was  the  Other  Fellow’s  turn,”  he  went  on. 
“ Say,”  he  added,  “ how  often  are  you  going  to  let  me 
come  to  see  you  when  you  get  settled  here?  Twice  a 
week — three  times?” 

“ As  if  you  wanted  to  see  me  as  often  as  that.  Why, 
Landry,  I’m  growing  up  to  be  an  old  maid.  You  can’t 
want  to  lose  your  time  calling  on  old  maids.” 

He  was  voluble  in  protestations.  He  was  tired  of 
young  girls.  They  were  all  very  well  to  dance  with, 
but  when  a man  got  too  old  for  that  sort  of  thing,  he 
wanted  some  one  with  sense  to  talk  to.  Yes,  he  did. 
Some  one  with  sense.  Why,  he  would  rather  talk  five 
minutes  with  her 

“ Honestly,  Landry?  ” she  asked,  as  though  he  were 
telling  a thing  incredible. 

He  swore  to  her  it  was  true.  His  eyes  snapped.  He 
struck  his  palm  with  his  fist. 

“An  old  maid  like  me?”  repeated  Laura. 

“Old  maid  nothing!”  he  vociferated.  “Ah,”  he 
cried,  “ you  seem  to  understand  me.  When  I look  at 
you,  straight  into  your  eyes ” 

From  the  doorway  the  cook  announced  that  the  man 
with  the  last  load  of  furnace  coal  had  come,  and  handed 
Laura  the  voucher  to  sign.  Then  needs  must  that 
Laura  go  with  the  cook  to  see  if  the  range  was  finally 
and  properly  adjusted,  and  while  she  was  gone  the  man 
from  the  gas  company  called  to  turn  on  the  meter,  and 
Landry  was  obliged  to  look  after  him.  It  was  half  an 
hour  before  he  and  Laura  could  once  more  settle  them- 
selves on  the  cushions  in  the  parlour. 

“ Such  a lot  of  things  to  do,”  she  said;  “ and  you  are 


52 


The  Pit 


such  a help,  Landry.  It  was  so  dear  of  you  to  want  to 
come.'’ 

“ I would  do  anything  in  the  world  for  you,  Laura,” 
he  exclaimed,  encouraged  by  her  words ; “ anything. 
You  know  I would.  It  isn’t  so  much  that  I want  you 
to  care  for  me — and  I guess  I want  that  bad  enough — 
but  it’s  because  I love  to  be  with  you,  and  be  helping 
j you,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  Now,  all  this,”  he 
waved  a hand  at  the  confusion  of  furniture,  “ all  this 
to-day — I just  feel,”  he  declared  with  tremendous 
earnestness,  “ I just  feel  as  though  I were  entering 
into  your  life.  And  just  sitting  here  beside  you  and 
putting  in  these  curtain  hooks,  I want  you  to  know 
that  it’s  inspiring  to  me.  Yes,  it  is,  inspiring;  it’s  ele- 
vating. You  don’t  know  how  it  makes  a man  feel  to 
have  the  companionship  of  a good  and  lovely  woman.” 

“ Landry,  as  though  I were  all  that.  Here,  put  an- 
other hook  in  here.” 

She  held  the  fold  towards  him.  But  he  took  her 
hand  as  their  fingers  touched  and  raised  it  to  his  lips 
and  kissed  it.  She  did  not  withdraw  it,  nor  rebuke  him, 
crying  out  instead,  as  though  occupied  with  quite  an- 
other matter: 

” Landry,  careful,  my  dear  boy;  you’ll  make  me  prick 
my  fingers.  Ah — there,  you  did.” 

He  was  all  commiseration  and  self-reproach  at  once, 
and  turned  her  hand  palm  upwards,  looking  for  the 
scratch. 

“ Um!  ” she  breathed.  “ It  hurts.” 

“ Where  now,”  he  cried,  “ where  was  it?  Ah,  I was 
a beast;  I’m  so  ashamed.”  She  indicated  a spot  on  her 
wrist  instead  of  her  fingers,  and  very  naturally  Landry 
kissed  it  again. 

“ How  foolish!  ” she  remonstrated.  “ The  idea!  As 
if  I wasn’t  old  enough  to  be ” 


■y 


A Story  of  Chicago  53 

“ You’re  not  so  old  but  what  you’re  going  to  marry 
me  some  day,”  he  declared. 

“ How  perfectly  silly,  Landry!  ” she  retorted.  “Aren’t 
you  done  with  my  hand  yet?” 

“ No,  indeed,”  he  cried,  his  clasp  tightening  over  her 
fingers.  “ It’s  mine.  You  can’t  have  it  till  I say — or 
till  you  say  that — some  day — you’ll  give  it  to  me  for 
good — for  better  or  for  worse.” 

“ As  if  you  really  meant  that,”  she  said,  willing  to 
prolong  the  little  situation.  It  was  very  sweet  to  have 
this  clean,  fine-fibred  young  boy  so  earnestly  in  love 
with  her,  very  sweet  that  the  lifting  of  her  finger,  the 
mere  tremble  of  her  eyelid  should  so  perturb  him. 

“Mean  it!  Mean  it!”  he  vociferated.  “You  don’t 
know  how  much  I do  mean  it.  Why,  Laura,  why — why, 
I can’t  think  of  anything  else.” 

“ You!  ” she  mocked.  “ As  if  I believed  that.  How 
many  other  girls  have  you  said  it  to  this  year?  ” 

Landry  compressed  his  lips. 

“ Miss  Dearborn,  you  insult  me.” 

“ Oh,  my!  ” exclaimed  Laura,  at  last  withdrawing  her 
hand. 

“ And  now  you’re  mocking  me.  It  isn’t  kind.  No, 
it  isn’t;  it  isn’t  kind.” 

“ I never  answered  your  question  yet,”  she  observed. 

“ What  question?  ” 

“ About  your  coming  to  see  me  when  we  were  settled. 
I thought  you  wanted  to  know.”  ■ 

“ How  about  lunch?  ” said  Page,  from  the  doorway. 
“Do  you  know  it’s  after  twelve?” 

“ The  girl  has  got  something  for  us,”  said  Laura.  “ I 
told  her  about  it.  Oh,  just  a pick-up  lunch — coffee, 
chops.  I thought  we  wouldn’t  bother  to-day.  We’ll 
have  to  eat  in  the  kitchen.” 

“ Well,  let’s  be  about  it,”  declared  Landry,  “ and 


54 


The  Pit 


finish  with  these  curtains  afterward.  Inwardly  Pm  a 
ravening  wolf.” 

It  was  past  one  o’clock  by  the  time  that  luncheon, 
“ picked  up  ” though  it  was,  was  over.  By  then  every- 
body was  very  tired.  Aunt  Wess’  exclaimed  that  she 
could  not  stand  another  minute,  and  retired  to  her 
room.  Page,  indefatigable,  declaring  they  never 
would  get  settled  if  they  let  things  dawdle  along,  set 
to  work  unpacking  her  trunk  and  putting  her  clothes 
away.  Her  fox  terrier,  whom  the  family,  for  obscure 
reasons,  called  the  Pig,  arrived  in  the  middle  of  the 
afternoon  in  a crate,  and  shivering  with  the  chill  of  the 
house,  was  tied  up  behind  the  kitchen  range,  where, 
for  all  the  heat,  he  still  trembled  and  shuddered  at  long 
intervals,  his  head  down,  his  eyes  rolled  up,  bewildered 
and  discountenanced  by  so  much  confusion  and  so 
many  new  faces. 

Outside  the  weather  continued  lamentable.  The  rain 
beat  down  steadily  upon  the  heaps  of  snow  on  the 
grass-plats  by  the  curbstones,  melting  it,  dirtying  it, 
and  reducing  it  to  viscid  slush.  The  sky  was  lead  grey ; 
the  trees,  bare  and  black  as  though  built  of  iron  and 
wire,  dripped  incessantly.  The  sparrows,  huddling 
under  the  house-eaves  or  in  interstices  of  the  mould- 
ings, chirped  feebly  from  time  to  time,  sitting  discon- 
solate, their  feathers  puffed  out  till  their  bodies  as- 
sumed globular  shapes.  Delivery  wagons  trundled  up 
and  down  the  street  at  intervals,  the  horses  and  drivers 
housed  in  oil-skins. 

The  neighborhood  was  quiet.  There  was  no  sound 
of  voices  in  the  streets.  But  occasionally,  from  far 
away  in  the  direction  of  the  river  or  the  Lake  Front, 
came  the  faint  sounds  of  steamer  and  tug  whistles. 
The  sidewalks  in  either  direction  were  deserted.  Only 
a solitary  policeman,  his  star  pinned  to  the  outside  of 


A Story  of  Chicago 


55 


his  dripping  rubber  coat,  his  helmet  shedding  rivulets, 
stood  on  the  corner  absorbed  in  the  contemplation  of 
the  brown  torrent  of  the  gutter  plunging  into  a sewer 
vent. 

Landry  and  Laura  were  in  the  library  at  the  rear  of 
the  house,  a small  room,  two  sides  of  which  were  oc- 
cupied with  book-cases.  They  were  busy  putting  the 
books  in  place.  Laura  stood  half-way  up  the  step- 
ladder  taking  volume  after  volume  from  Landry  as  he 
passed  them  to  her. 

“ Do  you  wipe  them  carefully,  Landry?  ” she  asked. 

He  held  a strip  of  cloth  torn  from  an  old  sheet  in  his 
hand,  and  rubbed  the  dust  from  each  book  before  he 
handed  it  to  her. 

“ Yes,  yes ; very  carefully,”  he  assured  her.  “ Say,” 
he  added,  “ where  are  all  your  modern  novels?  You’ve 
got  Scott  and  Dickens  and  Tbar.kpray^  of  course,  and 
Eliot — yes,  and  here’s  Hawthorne  and  Poe.  But  I 
haven’t  struck  anything  later  than  Oliver  Wendell 
Holmes.” 

Laura  put  up  her  chin.  “ Modern  novels — no  in- 
deed. When  I’ve  yet  to  read  ‘ Jane  Eyre,’  and  have 
only  read  ‘ Ivanhoe  ’ and  ‘ The  Newcomes  ’ once.” 

She  made  a point  of  the  fact  that  her  taste  was  the 
extreme  of  conservatism,  refusing  to  acknowledge 
hardly  any  fiction  that  was  not  almost  classic.  Even 
Stevenson  aroused  her  suspicions. 

“ Well,  here’s  ‘ The  Wrecker,’  ” observed  Landry, 
handing  it  up  to  her.  “ I read  it  last  summer-vaca- 
tion at  Waukesha.  Just  about  took  the  top  of  my 
head  off.” 

“ I tried  to  read  it,”  she  answered.  “ Such  an  out- 
landish story,  no  love  story  in  it,  and  so  coarse,  so 
brutal,  and  then  so  improbable.  I couldn’t  get  in- 
terested.” 


56 


The  Pit 


But  abruptly  Landry  uttered  an  exclamation: 

“Well,  what  do  you  call  this?  ‘Wanda,’  by  Ouida. 
How  is  this  for  modern?  ” 

She  blushed  to  her  hair,  snatching  the  book  from 
him. 

“ Page  brought  it  home.  It’s  hers.’’ 

But  her  confusion  betrayed  her,  and  Landry  shouted 
derisively. 

“ Well,  I did  read  it  then,’’  she  suddenly  declared  de- 
fiantly. “ No,  I’m  not  ashamed.  Yes,  I read  it  from 
cover  to  cover.  It  made  me  cry  like  I haven’t  cried 
over  a book  since  I was  a little  tot.  You  can  say  what 
you  like,  but  it’s  beautiful — a beautiful  love  story — 
and  it  does  tell  about  noble,  unselfish  people.  I sup- 
pose it  has  its  faults,  but  it  makes  you  feel  better  for 
reading  it,  and  that’s  what  all  your  ‘ Wreckers  ’ in  the 
world  would  never  do.’’ 

“ Well,’’  answered  Landry,  “ I don’t  know  much 
about  that  sort  of  thing.  Corthell  does.  He  can  talk 
you  blind  about  literature.  I’ve  heard  him  run  on  by 
the  hour.  He  says  the  novel  of  the  future  is  going  to 
be  the  novel  without  a love  story.’’ 

But  Laura  nodded  her  head  incredulously. 

“ It  will  be  long  after  I am  dead — that’s  one  conso- 
lation,” she  said. 

“ Corthell  is  full  of  crazy  ideas  anyhow,”  Landry 
went  on,  still  continuing  to  pass  the  books  up  to  her. 
“ He’s  a good  sort,  and  I like  him  w'ell  enough,  but 
he’s  the  kind  of  man  that  gets  up  a reputation  for  being 
clever  and  artistic  by  running  down  the  very  one  par- 
ticular thing  that  every  one  likes,  and  cracking  up 
some  book  or  picture  or  play  that  no  one  has  ever 
heard  of.  Just  let  anything  get  popular  once  and 
Sheldon  Corthell  can’t  speak  of  it  without  shudder- 
ing. But  he’ll  go  over  here  to  some  Archer  Avenue 


A Story  of  Chicago 


57 


pawn  shop,  dig  up  an  old  brass  stewpan,  or  coffee- 
pot that  some  greasy  old  Russian  Jew  has  chucked 
away,  and  he’ll  stick  it  up  in  his  studio  and  regularly 
kow-tow  to  it,  and  talk  about  the  ‘ decadence  of  Arneri- 
can  industrial  arts.’  I’ve  heard  him.  I say  it’s  pure 
affectation,  that’s  what  it  is,  pure  affectation.” 

But  the  book-case  meanwhile  had  been  filling  up, 
and  now  Laura  remarked : 

“ No  more,  Landry.  That’s  all  that  will  go  here.” 

She  prepared  to  descend  from  the  ladder.  In  filling 
the  higher  shelves  she  had  mounted  almost  to  the  top- 
most step. 

“ Careful  now,”  said  Landry,  as  he  came  forward. 
“ Give  me  your  hand.” 

She  gave  it  to  him,  and  then,  as  she  descended', 
Landry  had  the  assurance  to  put  his  arm  around  her 
waist  as  if  to  steady  her.  He  was  surprised  at  his  own 
audacity,  for  he  had  premeditated  nothing,  and  his  arm 
was  about  her  before  he  was  well  aware.  He  yet  found 
time  to  experience  a qualm  of  apprehension.  Just  how 
would  Laura  take  it?  Had  he  gone  too  far? 

But  Laura  did  not  even  seem  to  notice,  all  her  at- 
tention apparently  fixed  upon  coming  safely  down  to 
the  floor.  She  descended  and  shook  out  her  skirts. 

“ There,”  she  said,  “ that’s  over  with.  Look,  I’m  all 
dusty.” 

There  was  a knock  at  the  half-open  door.  It  was  the 
cook. 

“ What  are  you  going  to  have  for  supper.  Miss  Dear- 
born?” she  inquired.  “There’s  nothing  in  the  house.” 

“ Oh,  dear,”  said  Laura  with  sudden  blankness,  “ I 
never  thought  of  supper.  Isn’t  there  anything?” 

“ Nothing  but  some  eggs  and  coffee.”  The  cook 
assumed  an  air  of  aloofness,  as  if  the  entire  affair  were 


58 


The  Pit 


totally  foreign  to  any  interest  or  concern  of  hers. 
Laura  dismissed  her,  saying  that  she  would  see  to  it. 

“ We’ll  have  to  g-o  out  and  get  some  things,”  she 
said.  “ We’ll  all  go.  I’m  tired  of  staying  in  the  house.” 

“ No,  I’ve  a better  scheme,”  announced  Landry. 
“ I’ll  invite  you  all  out  to  dine  with  me.  I know  a place 
where  you  can  get  the  best  steak  in  America.  It  has 
stopped  raining.  See,”  he  showed  her  the  window. 

“ But,  Landry,  we  are  all  so  dirty  and  miserable.” 

“ We’ll  go  right  now  and  get  there  early.  There  will 
be  nobody  there,  and  we  can  have  a room  to  ourselves. 
Oh,  it’s  all  right,”  he  declared.  “ You  just  trust  me.” 

“ We’ll  see  what  Page  and  Aunt  Wess’  say.  Of 
course  Aunt  Wess’  would  have  to  come.” 

“ Of  course,”  he  said.  “ I wouldn’t  think  of  asking 
you  unless  she  could  come.” 

A little  later  the  two  sisters,  Mrs.  Wessels,  and 
Landry  came  out  of  the  house,  but  before  taking  their 
car  they  crossed  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  street, 
Laura  having  said  that  she  wanted  to  note  the  effect  of 
her  parlour  curtains  from  the  outside. 

“ I think  they  are  looped  up  just  far  enough,”  she 
declared.  -But  Landry  was  observing  the  house  itself. 

“ It  is  the  best-looking  place  on  the  block,”  he  an- 
swered. 

In  fact,  the  house  was  not  without  a certain  attrac- 
tiveness. It  occupied  a corner  lot  at  the  intersection 
of  Huron  and  North  State  streets.  Directly  opposite 
was  St.  James’  Church,  and  at  one  time  the  house  had 
served  as  the  rectory.  For  the  matter  of  that,  it  had 
been  built  for  just  that  purpose.  Its  style  of  archi- 
tecture was  distantly  ecclesiastic,  with  a suggestion  of 
Gothic  to  some  of  the  doors  and  windows.  The  ma- 
terial used  was  solid,  massive,  the  walls  thick,  the  foun- 
dation heavy.  It  did  not  occupy  the  entire  lot,  the 


A Story  of  Chicago 


59 


original  builder  seeming  to  have  preferred  garden  space 
to  mere  amplitude  of  construction,  and  in  addition  to 
the  inevitable  “ back  yard,”  a lawn  bordered  it  on  three 
sides.  It  gave  the  place  a certain  air  of  distinction 
and  exclusiveness.  Vines  grew  thick  upon  the  southern 
walls ; in  the  summer  time  fuchsias,  geraniums,  and 
pansies  would  flourish  in  the  flower  beds  by  the  front 
stoop.  The  grass  plat  by  the  curb  boasted  a couple 
of  trees.  The  whole  place  was  distinctive,  individual, 
and  very  homelike,  and  came  as  a grateful  relief  to 
the  endless  lines  of  houses  built  of  yellow  Michigan 
limestone  that  pervaded  the  rest  of  the  neighbourhood 
in  every  direction. 

“ I love  the  place,”  exclaimed  Laura.  “ I thinlt  it’s 
as  pretty  a house  as*  I have  seen  in  Chicago.” 

“ Well,  it  isn’t  so  spick  and  span,”  commented  Page. 
“ It  gives  you  the  idea  that  we’re  not  new-rich  and 
showy  and  all.” 

But  Aunt  Wess’  was  not  yet  satisfied. 

“ You  may  see,  Laura,”  she  remarked,  “ how  you  are 
going  to  heat  all  that  house  with  that  one  furnace,  but 
I declare  I don’t.” 

Their  car,  or  rather  their  train  of  cars,  coupled  to- 
gether in  threes,  in  Chicago  style,  came,  and  Landry 
escorted  them  down  town.  All  the  way  Laura  could 
not  refrain  from  looking  out  of  the  windows,  ab- 
sorbed in  the  contemplation  of  the  life  and  aspects  of 
the  streets. 

“ You  will  gpve  yourself  away,”  said  Page.  “ Every- 
body will  know  you’re  from  the  country.” 

“ I am,”  she  retorted.  “ But  there’s  a difference  be- 
tween just  mere  ‘ country  ’ and  Massachusetts,  and  I’m 
not  ashamed  of  it.” 

Chicago,  the  great  grey  city,  interested  her  at  every 
instant  and  under  every  condition.  As  yet  she  was  not 


6o 


The  Pit 


sure  that  she  liked  it;  she  could  not  forgive  its  dirty 
streets,  the  unspeakable  squalor  of  some  of  its  poorer 
neighbourhoods  that  sometimes  developed,  like  can- 
cerous growths,  in  the  very  heart  of  fine  residence  dis- 
tricts. The  black  murk  that  closed  every  vista  of  the 
business  streets  oppressed  her,  and  the  soot  that 
stained  linen  and  gloves  each  time  she  stirred  abroad 
was  a never-ending  distress. 

But  the  life  was  tremendous.  All  around,  on  every 
side,  in  every  direction  the  vast  machinery  of  Common- 
wealth clashed  and  thundered  from  dawn  to  dark  and 
from  dark  till  dawn.  Even  now,  as  the  car  carried  her 
farther  into  the  business  quarter,  she  could  hear  it,  see 
it,  and  feel  in  her  every  fibre  the  trepidation  of  its  mo- 
tion. The  blackened  waters  of  the  river,  seen  an  in- 
stant between  stanchions  as  the  car  trundled  across 
the  State  Street  bridge,  disappeared  under  fleets  of 
tugs,  of  lake  steamers,  of  lumber  barges  from  She- 
boygan and  Mackinac,  of  grain  boats  from  Duluth,  of 
coal  scows  that  filled  the  air  with  impalpable  dust,  of 
cumbersome  schooners  laden  with  produce,  of  grimy 
rowboats  dodging  the  prows  and  paddles  of  the  larger 
craft,  while  on  all  sides,  blocking  the  horizon,  red  in 
color  and  designated  by  Brobdignag  letters,  towered 
the  hump-shouldered  grain  elevators. 
r Just  before  crossing  the  bridge  on  the  north  side  of 
the  river  she  had  caught  a glimpse  of  a great  railway 
terminus.  Down  below  there,  rectilinear,  scientifically 
paralleled  and  squared,  the  Yard  disclosed  itself.  A 
system  of  grey  rails  beyond  words  complicated  opened 
out  and  spread  immeasurably.  Switches,  semaphores, 
and  signal  towers  stood  here  and  there.  A dozen 
trains,  freight  and  passenger,  puffed  and  steamed,  wait- 
ing the  word  to  depart.  Detached  engines  hurried  in 
and  out  of  sheds  and  roundhouses,  seeking  their  trains, 


A Story  of  Chicago 


6i 


or  bunted  the  ponderous  freight  cars  into  switches; 
trundling  up  and  down,  clanking,  shrieking,  their  bells 
filling  the  air  with  the  clangour  of  tocsins.  Men  in 
visored  caps  shouted  hoarsely,  waving  their  arms  or  red 
flags;  drays,  their  big  dappled  horses,  feeding  in  their 
nose  bags,  stood  backed  up  to  the  open  doors  of  freight 
cars  and  received  their  loads.  A train  departed  roar- 
ing. Before  midnight  it  would  be  leagues  away  bor- 
ing through  the  Great  Northwest,  carrying  Trade — 
the  life  blood  of  nations — into  communities  of  which 
Laura  had  never  heard.  Another  train,  reeking  with 
fatigue,  the  air  brakes  screaming,  arrived  and  halted, 
debouching  a flood  of  passengers,  business  men,  bring- 
ing Trade — a galvanising  elixir — from  the  very  ends  and 
corners  of  the  continent. 

Or,  again,  it  was  South  Water  Street — a jam  of  de- 
livery wagons  and  market  carts  backed  to  the  curbs, 
leaving  only  a tortuous  path  between  the  endless  files 
of  horses,  suggestive  of  an  actual  barrack  of  cavalry. 
Provisions,  market  produce,  “ garden  truck  ” and  fruits, 
in  an  infinite  welter  of  crates  and  baskets,  boxes,  and 
sacks,  crowded  the  sidewalks.  The  gutter  was  choked 
with  an  overflow  of  refuse  cabbage  leaves,  soft  or- 
anges, decaying  beet  tops.  The  air  was  thick  with 
the  heavy  smell  of  vegetation.  Food  was  trodden 
under  foot,  food  crammed  the  stores  and  warehouses 
to  bursting.  Food  mingled  with  the  mud  of  the  high- 
way. The  very  dray  horses  were  gorged  with  an  un- 
ending nourishment  of  snatched  mouthfuls  picked  from 
backboard,  from  barrel  top,  and  from  the  edge  of  the 
sidewalk.  The  entire  locality  reeked  with  the  fatness 
of  a hundred  thousand  furrows.  A land  of  plenty, 
the  inordinate  abundance  of  the  earth  itself  emptied 
itself  upon  the  asphalt  and  cobbles  of  the  quarter.  It 
was  the  Mouth  of  the  City,  and  drawn  from  all  direc- 


62 


The  Pit 


tions,  over  a territory  of  immense  area,  this  glut  of 
crude  subsistence  was  sucked  in,  as  if  into  a rapacious 
gullet,  to  feed  the  sinews  and  to  nourish  the  fibres  of 
an  immeasurable  colossusy 

Suddenly  the  meaning  and  significance  of  it  all 
dawned  upon  Laura.  The  Great  Grey  City,  brooking 
no  rival,  imposed  its  dominion  upon  a reach  of  country 
larger  than  many  a kingdom  of  the  Old  World.  For 
thousands  of  miles  beyond  its  confines  was*  its  influ- 
ence felt.  Out,  far  out,  far  away  in  the  snow  and 
shadow  of  Northern  Wisconsin  forests,  axes  and  saws 
bit  the  bark  of  century-old  trees,  stimulated  by  this  city’s 
energy.  Just  as  far  to  the  southward  pick  and  drill 
leaped  to  the  assault  of  veins  of  anthracite,  moved  by 
her  central  power.  Her  force  turned  the  wheels  of 
harvester  and  seeder  a thousand  miles  distant  in  Iowa 
and  Kansas.  Her  force  spun  the  screws  and  pro- 
pellers of  innumerable  squadrons  of  lake  steamers 
crowding  the  Sault  Sainte  Marie.  For  her  and  because 
of  her  all  the  Central  States,  all  the  Great  Northwest 
roared  with  traffic  and  industry ; sawmills  screamed ; 
factories,  their  smoke  blackening  the  sky,  clashed  and 
flamed;  wheels  turned,  pistons  leaped  in  their  cylin- 
ders ; cog  gripped  cog ; beltings  clasped  the  drums  of 
mammoth  wheels ; and  converters  of  forges  belched 
into  the  clouded  air  their  tempest  breath  of  molten 
steel. 

[^It  was  Empire,  the  resistless  subjugation  of  all  this 
central  world  of  the  lakes  and  the  prairies.  Here,  mid- 
most in  the  land,  beat  the  Heart  of  the  Nation,  whence 
inevitably  must  come  its  immeasurable  power,  its  in- 
finite, infinite,  inexhaustible  vitality.  Here,  of  all  hei 
cities,  throbbed  the  true  life — the  true  power  and  spirit 
of  America;  gigantic,  crude  with  the  crudity  of  youth, 
disdaining  rivalry  ; sane  and  healthy  and  vigorous  ; 


A Story  of  Chicago 


63 


brutal  in  its  ambition,  arrogant  in  the  new-found  knowl- 
edge of  its  giant  strength,  prodigal  of  its  wealth,  in- 
finite in  its  desires.  In  its  capacity  boundless,  in  its 
courage  indomitable ; subduing  the  wilderness  in  a 
single  generation,  defying  calamity,  and  through  the 
flame  and  the  debris  of  a commonwealth  in  ashes,  rising 
suddenly  renewed,  formidable,  and  Titanic?^ 

Laura,  her  eyes  dizzied,  her  ears  stunned,  watched 
tirelessly. 

“ There  is  something  terrible  about  it,”  she  mur- 
mured, half  to  herself,  “ something  insensate.  In  a 
way,  it  doesn’t  seem  human.  It’s  like  a great  tidal  wave. 
It’s  all  very  well  for  the  individual  just  so  long  as  he 
can  keep  afloat,  but  once  fallen,  how  horribly  quick 
it  would  crush  him,  annihilate  him,  how  horribly  quick, 
and  with  such  horrible  indifference ! I suppose  it’s 
civilisation  in  the  making,  the  thing  that  isn’t  meant 
to  be  seen,  as  though  it  were  too  elemental,  too — pri- 
tnordial ; like  the  first  verses  of  Genesis.” 

The  impression  remained  long  with  her,  and  not 
;ven  the  gaiety  of  their  little  supper  could  altogether 
disperse  it.  She  was  a little  frightened — frightened  of 
Ithe  vast,  cruel  machinery  of  the  city’s  life,  and  of  the 
men  who  could  dare  it,  who  conquered  it.  fFor  a mo- 
ment they  seemed,  in  a sense,  more  terrible  than  the 
city  itself — men  for  whom  all  this  crash  of  conflict 
and  commerce  had  no  terrors.  Those  who  could  sub- 
due it  to  their  purposes,  must  they  not  be  themselves 
more  terrible,  more  pitiless,  more  brutal  ? She  shrank  i 
a little.  What  could  women  ever  know  of  the  life  of/I 


men,  after  all?  Even  Landry,  extravagant  as  he  was, 
so  young,  so  exuberant,  so  seemingly  innocent — she 
knew  that  he  was  spoken  of  as  a good  business  man. 
He,  too,  then  had  his  other  side.  For  him  the  Battle 
of  the  Street  was  an  exhilaration.  Beneath  that  boyish 


The  Pit 


;rior  was  the  tough  coarseness,  the  male  hardness, 
''iie  callousness  that  met  the  brunt  and  withstood  the 
slock  of  onsetTi 

(^h,  these  men  of  the  city,  what  could  women  ever 
know  of  them,  of  their  lives,  of  that  other  existence 
through  which — freed  from  the  influence  of  wife  or 
mother,  or  daughter  or  sister — they  passed  every  day 
from  nine  o’clock  till  evening?  It  was  a life  in  which 
women  had  no  part,  and  in  which,  should  they  enter 
it,  they  would  no  longer  recognise  son  or  husband,  or 
father  or  brother.  The  gentle-mannered  fellow,  clean- 
minded,  clean-handed,  of  the  breakfast  or  supper  table 
was  one  man.  The  other,  who  and  what  was  he  ? Down 
there  in  mnrk  and  grimp  of  the  business  district 
raged  the(Battle  ~of  the  Streetj.  and  therein  he  ^^’as  a 
being  transformed,  case  hardened,  supremely  selfish, 
asking  no  quarter;  no,  nor  giving  any.  Fouled  with 
the  clutchings  and  grapplings  of  the  attack,  besmirched 
with  the  elbowing  of  low  associates  and  obscure  allies, 
he  set  his  feet  toward  conquest,  and  mingled  with  the 
marchings  of  an  army  that  surged  forever  forward  and 
back;  now  in  merciless  assault,  beating  the  fallen  enemy 
under  foot,  now  in  repulse,  equally  merciless,  trampling 
down  the  auxiliaries  of  the  day  before,  in  a panic  dash 
for  safety ; always  cruel,  always  selfish,  always  pitilessT\ 
To  contrast  these  men  with  such  as  Corthell  was  in- 
evitable. She  remembered  him,  to  whom  the  business 
district  was  an  unexplored  country,  who  kept  himself 
far  from  the  fighting,  his  hands  unstained,  his  feet  un- 
sullied. He  passed  his  life  gently,  in  the  calm,  still 
atmosphere  of  art,  in  the  cult  of  the  beautiful,  unper- 
turbed, tranquil;  painting,  reading,  or,  piece  by  piece, 
developing  his  beautiful  stained  glass.  Him  women 
could  know,  with  him  they  could  sympathise.  And  he 
could  enter  fully  into  their  lives  and  help  and  stimu- 


A Story  of  Chicago  65 

late  them.  Of  the  two  existences  which  did  she  pre- 
fer, that  of  the  business  man,  or  that  of  the  artist  ? 

Then  suddenly  Laura  surprised  herself.  After  all, 
she  was  a daughter  of  the  frontier,  and  the  blood  of 
those  who  had  wrestled  with  a new  world  flowed  in 
her  body.  Yes,  Corthell’s  was  a beautiful  life;  the 
charm  of  dim  painted  windows,  the  attraction  of  dark- 
ened studios  with  their  harmonies  of  color,  their 
orientalisms,  and  their  arabesques  was  strong.  No 
doubt  it  all  had  its  place.  It  fascinated  her  at  times, 
in  spite  of  herself.  To  relax  the  mind,  to  indulge  the 
senses,  to  live  in  an  environment  of  pervading  beauty 
was  delightful.  But  the  men  to  whom  the  woman  in 
her  turned  were  not  those  of  the  studio.  Terrible  as  \ 
the  Battle  of  the  Street  was,  it  was  yet  battle.  Only  ! 
the  strong  and  the  brave  might  dare  it,  and  the  figiire  \ 
that  held  her  imagination  and  her  sympathy  was  not 
the  artist,  soft  of  hand  and  of  speech,  elaborating  , 
graces  of  sound  and_,xolor  and  form,  refined,  sensitive,  | 
and  temperamental  i but  the  fighter,  unknown  and  un-  j 
knowable  to  women'^s  he  was ; hard,  rigqrous,  pano-  ; 
plied  in  the  harness  of  the  warrior,  who  strove  among  | 
the  trumpets,  and  who,  in  the  brunt  of  conflict,  con- 
spicuous,  formidable,  set  the  battle  in  a rage  around  ’ 
him,  and  exulted  like  a champion  in  the  shoutings  of 
the  captains^ 

They  were  not  long  at  table,  and  by  the  time  they 
were  ready  to  depart  it  was  about  half-past  five.  But 
when  they  emerged  into  the  street,  it  was  discovered 
that  once  more  the  weather  had  abruptly  changed.  It 
was  snowing  thickly.  Again  a bitter  wind  from  off 
the  Lake  tore  through  the  streets.  The  slush  and 
melted  snow  was  freezing,  and  the  north  side  of  every 
lamp  post  and  telegraph  pole  was  sheeted  with  ice. 

To  add  to  their  discomfort,  the  North  State  Street 

* 


66 


The  Pit 


cars  were  blocked.  When  they  gained  the  corner  of 
Washington  Street  they  could  see  where  the  conges- 
tion began,  a few  squares  distant. 

“ There’s  nothing  for  it,”  declared  Landry,  “ but  to 
go  over  and  get  the  Clarke  Street  cars — and  at  that 
you  may  have  to  stand  up  all  the  way  home,  at  this  time 
of  day.” 

They  paused,  irresolute,  a moment  on  the  corner.  It 
was  the  centre  of  the  retail  quarter.  Qose  at  hand  a 
vast  dry  goods  house,  built  in  the  old  “ iron-front  ” 
style,  towered  from  the  pavement,  and  through  its  hun- 
dreds of  windows  presented  to  view  a world  of  stuffs 
and  fabrics,  upholsteries  and  textiles,  kaleidoscopic, 
gleaming  in  the  fierce  brilliance  of  a multitude  of  lights. 
From  each  street  doorway  was  pouring  an  army  of 
“ shoppers,”  women  for  the  most  part ; and  these — 
since  the  store  catered  to  a rich  clientele — fashionably 
dressed.  Many  of  them  stood  for  a moment  on  the 
threshold  of  the  storm-doorways,  turning  up  the  col- 
lars of  their  sealskins,  settling  their  hands  in  their 
muffs,  and  searching  the  street  for  their  coupes  and 
carriages. 

Among  the  number  of  those  thus  engaged,  one,  sud- 
denly catching  sight  of  Laura,  waved  a muff  in  her  di- 
rection, then  came  quickly  forward.  It  was  Mrs.  Cress- 
ler. 

“ Laura,  my  dearest  girl ! Of  all  the  people.  I am 
so  glad  to  see  you ! ” She  kissed  Laura  on  the  cheek, 
shook  hands  all  around,  and  asked  about  the  sisters’ 
new  home.  Did  they  want  anything,  or  was  there  any- 
thing she  could  do  to  help  ? Then  interrupting  herself, 
and  laying  a glove  on  Laura’s  arm : 

“ I’ve  got  more  to  tell  you.” 

She  compressed  her  lips  and  stood  off  from  Laura, 
fixing  her  with  a significant  glance. 


A Story  of  Chicago 


67 


“Me?  To  tell  me?” 

“ Where  are  you  going  now?  ” 

“ Home ; but  our  cars  are  stopped.  We  naust  go 
over  to ” 

“ Fiddlesticks ! You  and  Page  and  Mrs.  Wessels — 
all  of  you  are  coming  home  and  dine  with  me.” 

“ But  we’ve  had  dinner  already,”  they  all  cried,  speak- 
ing at  once. 

Page  explained  the  situation,  but  Mrs.  Cressler  would 
not  be  denied. 

“ The  carriage  is  right  here,”  she  said.  “ I don’t 
have  to  call  for  Charlie.  He’s  got  a man  from  Cin- 
cinnati in  tow,  and  they  are  going  to  dine  at  the 
Calumet  Club.” 

It  ended  by  the  two  sisters  and  Mrs.  Wessels  getting 
into  Mrs.  Cressler’s  carriage.  Landry  excused  himself. 
He  lived  on  the  South  Side,  on  Michigan  Avenue,  and 
declaring  that  he  knew  they  had  had  enough  of  him  for 
one  day,  took  himself  off. 

But  whatever  Mrs.  Cressler  had  to  tell  Laura,  she 
evidently  was  determined  to  save  for  her  ears  only. 
Arrived  at  the  Dearborns’  home,  she  sent  her  footman 
in  to  tell  the  “ girl  ” that  the  family  would  not  be  home 
that  night.  The  Cresslers  lived  hard  by  on  the  same 
street,  and  within  ten  minutes’  walk  of  the  Dearborns. 
The  two  sisters  and  their  aunt  would  be  back  immedi- 
ately after  breakfast. 

When  they  had  got  home  with  Mrs.  Cressler,  this 
latter  suggested  hot  tea  and  sandwiches  in  the  library, 
for  the  ride  had  been  cold.  But  the  others,  worn  out, 
declared  for  bed  as  soon  as  Mrs.  Cressler  herself  had 
dined. 

“Oh,  bless  you,  Carrie,”  said  Aunt  Wess’;  “I 
couldn’t  think  of  tea.  My  back  is  just  about  broken, 
and  I’m  going  straight  to  my  bed.” 


68 


The  Pit 


Mrs.  Cressler  showed  them  to  their  rooms.  Page 
and  Mrs.  Wessels  elected  to  sleep  together,  and  once 
the  door  had  closed  upon  them  the  little  girl  unbur- 
dened herself. 

“ I suppose  Laura  thinks  it’s  all  right,  running  off  like 
this  for  the  whole  blessed  night,  and  no  one  to  look 
after  the  house  but  those  two  servants  that  nobody 
knows  anything  about.  As  though  there  weren’t  heaven 
knows  what  all  to  tend  to  there  in  the  morning.  I 
just  don’t  see,”  she  exclaimed  decisively,  “ how  we’re 
going  to  get  settled  at  all.  That  Landry  Court ! My 
goodness,  he’s  more  hindrance  than  help.  Did  you 
ever  see  ! He  just  dashes  in  as  though  he  were  doing 
it  all,  and  messes  everything  up,  and  loses  things,  and 
gets  things  into  the  wrong  place,  and  forgets  this  and 
that,  and  then  he  and  Laura  sit  down  and  spoon.  I 
never  saw  anything  like  it.  First  it’s  Corthell  and  then 
Landry,  and  next  it  will  be  somebody  else.  Laura 
regularly  mortifies  me ; a great,  grown-up  girl  like 
that,  flirting,  and  letting  every  man  she  meets  think 
that  he’s  just  the  one  particular  one  of  the  whole  earth. 
It’s  not  good  form.  And  Landry — as  if  he  didn’t  know 
we’ve  got  more  to  do  now  than  just  to  dawdle  and 
dawdle.  I could  slap  him.  I like  to  see  a man  take 
life  seriously  and  try  to  amount  to  something,  and  not 
waste  the  best  years  of  his  life  trailing  after  women 
who  are  old  enough  to  be  his  grandmother,  and  don’t 
mean  that  it  will  ever  come  to  anything.” 

In  her  room,  in  the  front  of  the  house,  Laura  was 
partly  undressed  when  Mrs.  Cressler  knocked  at  her 
door.  The  latter  had  put  on  a wrapper  of  flowered 
silk,  and  her  hair  was  bound  in  “ invisible  nets.” 

“ I brought  you  a dressing-gown,”  she  said.  She 
hung  it  over  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  sat  dowm  on  the 
bed  itself,  watching  Laura,  who  stood  before  the  glass 


69 


A Story  of  Chicago 

of  the  bureau,  her  head  bent  upon  her  breast,  her 
hands  busy  with  the  back  of  her,  hair.  'From  time  to 
time  the  hairpins  clicked  as  she  laid  them  down  in 
the  silver  trays  close  at  hand.  Then  putting  her  chin 
in  the  air,  she  shook  her  head,  and  the  great  braids, 
unlooped,  fell  to  her  waist. 

“ What  pretty  hair  you  have,  child,”  murmured  Mrs. 
Cressler.  She  was  settling  herself  for  a long  talk  with 
her  protege.  She  had  much  to  tell,  but  now  that  they 
had  the  whole  night  before  them,  could  aflford  to  take 
her  time. 

Between  the  two  women  the  conversation  began 
slowly,  with  detached  phrases  and  observations  that  did 
not  call  necessarily  for  answers — mere  beginnings  that 
they  did  not  care  to  follow  up. 

“ They  tell  me,”  said  Mrs.  Cressler,  “ that  that  Gretry 
girl  smokes  ten  cigarettes  every  night  before  she  goes 
to  bed.  You  know  the  Gretrys — they  were  at  the  opera 
the  other  night.” 

Laura  permitted  herself  an  indefinite  murmur  of  in- 
terest. Her  head  to  one  side,  she  drew  the  brush  in 
slow,  deliberate  movements  downward  underneath  the 
long,  thick  strands  of  her  hair.  Mrs.  Cressler  watched 
her  attentively. 

“ Why  don’t  you  wear  your  hair  that  new  way, 
Laura,”  she  remarked,  “farther  down  on  your  neck? 
I see  every  one  doing  it  now.” 

The  house  was  very  still.  Outside  the  double  win- 
dows they  could  hear  the  faint  murmuring  click  of  the 
frozen  snow.  A radiator  in  the  hallway  clanked  and 
strangled  for  a moment,  then  fell  quiet  again. 

“ What  a pretty  room  this  is,”  said  Laura.  “ I think 
I’ll  have  to  do  our  guest  room  something  like  this — a 
sort  of  white  and  gold  effect.  My  hair?  Oh,  I don’t 
know.  Wearing  it  low  that  way  makes  it  catch  so  on 


70 


The  Pit 


the  hooks  of  your  collar,  and,  besides,  I was  afraid  it 
would  make  my  head  look  so  flat.” 

There  was  a silence.  Laura  braided  a long  strand, 
with  quick,  regular  motions  of  both  hands,  and  letting 
it  fall  over  her  shoulder,  shook  it  into  place  with  a twist 
of  her  head.  She  stepped  out  of  her  skirt,  and  Mrs. 
Cressler  handed  her  her  dressing-gown,  and  brought 
out  a pair  of  quilted  slippers  of  red  satin  from  the  ward- 
robe. 

In  the  grate,  the  fire  that  had  been  lighted  just  be- 
fore they  had  come  upstairs  was  crackling  sharply. 
Laura  drew  up  an  armchair  and  sat  down  in  front  of 
it,  her  chin  in  her  hand.  Mrs.  Cressler  stretched  her- 
self upon  the  bed,  an  arm  behind  her  head. 

“ Well,  Laura,”  she  began  at  length,  “ I have  some 
real  news  for  you.  My  dear,  I believe  you’ve  made  a 
conquest.” 

“ I ! ” murmured  Laura,  looking  around.  She  feigned 
a surprise,  though  she  guessed  at  once  that  Mrs.  Cress- 
ler had  Corthell  in  mind. 

“ That  Mr.  Jadwin — ^the  one  you  met  at  the  opera.” 

Genuinely  taken  aback,  Laura  sat  upright  and  stared 
wide-eyed. 

“ Mr.  Jadwin ! ” she  exclaimed.  “ Why,  we  didn’t 
have  five  minutes’  talk.  Why,  I hardly  know  the  man. 
I only  met  him  last  night.” 

But  Mrs.  Cressler  shook  her  head,  closing  her  eyes 
and  putting  her  lips  together. 

“ That  don’t  make  any  difference,  Laura.  Trust  me 
to  tell  when  a man  is  taken  with  a girl.  My  dear,  you 
can  have  him  as  easy  as  that.”  She  snapped  her  fingers. 

“ Oh,  I’m  sure  you’re  mistaken,  Mrs.  Cressler.” 

“ Not  in  the  least.  I’ve  known  Curtis  Jadvnn  now 
for  fifteen  years — nobody  better.  He’s  as  old  a family 


A Story  of  Chicago  71 

friend  as  Charlie  and  I have.  I know  him  like  a book. 
And  I tell  you  the  man  is  in  love  with  you.” 

“ Well,  I hope  he  didn’t  tell  you  as  much,”  cried 
Laura,  promising  herself  to  be  royally  angry  if  such 
was  the  case.  But  Mrs.  Cressler  hastened  to  reassure 
her. 

“ Oh  my,  no.  But  all  the  way  home  last  night — he 
came  home  with  us,  you  know — he  kept  referring  to 
you,  and  just  so  soon  as  the  conversation  got  on  some 
other  subject  he  would  lose  interest.  He  wanted  to 
know  all  about  you — oh,  you  know  how  a man  will 
talk,”  she  exclaimed.  “ And  he  said  you  had  more 
sense  and  more  intelligence  than  any  girl  he  had  ever 
known.” 

“ Oh,  well,”  answered  Laura  deprecatingly,  as  if  to 
say  that  that  did  not  count  for  much  with  her. 

“ And  that  you  were  simply  beautiful.  He  said  that 
he  never  remembered  to  have  seen  a more  beautiful 
woman.” 

Laura  turned  her  head  away,  a hand  shielding  her 
cheek.  She  did  not  answer  immediately,  then  at  length: 

“ Has  he — this  Mr.  Jadwin — has  he  ever  been  married 
before  ? ” 

“ No,  no.  He’s  a bachelor,  and  rich ! He  could  buy 
and  sell  us.  And  don’t  think,  Laura  dear,  that  I’m 
jumping  at  conclusions.  I hope  I’m  woman  of  the 
world  enough  to  know  that  a man  who’s  taken  with  a 
pretty  face  and  smart  talk  isn’t  going  to  rush  right  into 
matrimony  because  of  that.  It  wasn’t  so  much  what 
Curtis  Jadwin  said — though,  dear  me  suz,  he  talked 
enough  about  you — as  what  he  didn’t  say.  I could  tell. 
He  was  thinking  hard.  He  was  hit,  Laura.  I know  he 
was.  And  Charlie  said  he  spoke  about  you  again  this 
morning  at  breakfast.  Charlie  makes  me  tired  some- 
times,” she  added  irrelevantly. 


72 


The  Pit 


“ Charlie  ? ” repeated  Laura. 

“ Well,  of  course  I spoke  to  him  about  Jadwin,  and 
how  taken  he  seemed  with  you,  and  the  man  roared  at 
me, 

“ He  didn’t  believe  it,  then.” 

“ Yes  he  did — when  I could  get  him  to  talk  seriously 
about  it,  and  when  I made  him  remember  how  Mr. 
Jadwin  had  spoken  in  the  carriage  coming  home.” 

Laura  curled  her  leg  under  her  and  sat  nursing  her 
foot  and  looking  into  the  fire.  For  a long  time  neither 
spoke.  A little  clock  of  brass  and  black  marble  be- 
gan to  chime,  very  prettily,  the  half  hour  of  nine.  Mrs. 
Cressler  observed: 

“ That  Sheldon  Corthell  seems  to  be  a very  agree- 
able kind  of  a young  man,  doesn’t  he?  ” 

“ Yes,”  replied  Laura  thoughtfully,  “ he  is  agreeable.” 

“ And  a talented  fellow,  too,”  continued  Mrs.  Cress- 
ler. " But  somehow  it  never  impressed  me  that  there 
was  very  much  to  him.” 

“ Oh,”  murmured  Laura  indifferently,  “ I don’t 
know.” 

“ I suppose,”  Mrs.  Cressler  went  on,  in  a tone  of 
resignation,  “ I suppose  he  thinks  the  world  and  all  of 
you  ? ” 

Laura  raised  a shoulder  without  answering. 

“ Charlie  can’t  abide  him,”  said  Mrs.  Cressler. 
“Funny,  isn’t  it  what  prejudices  men  have?  Charlie 
always  speaks  of  him  as  though  he  were  a higher  order 
of  glazier.  Curtis  Jadwin  seems  to  like  him.  . . . 

What  do  you  think  of  him,  Laura — of  Mr.  Jadwin?  ” 

“ I don’t  know,”  she  answered,  looking  vaguely  into 
the  fire.  “ I thought  he  was  a strong  man — mentally 
I mean,  and  that  he  would  be  kindly  and — and — gen- 
erous. Somehow,”  she  said,  musingly,  “ I didn’t  think 
he  would  be  the  sort  of  man  that  women  would  take  to, 


A Story  of  Chicago 


73 


at  first — but  then  I don’t  know.  I saw  very  little  of 
him,  as  I say.  He  didn’t  impress  me  as  being  a woman’s 
man.” 

“ All  the  better,”  said  the  other.  “ Who  would  want 
to  marry  a woman’s  man?  / wouldn’t.  Sheldon  Cor- 
thell  is  that.  I tell  you  one  thing,  Laura,  and  when 
you  are  as  old  as  I am,  you’ll  know  it’s  true : the  kind 
of  a jnan  that  men  like — not  women — is  the  kind  of  a 
man  that  makes  the  best-  husband.” 

Laura  nodded  her  head. 

“Yes,”  she  answered,  listlessly,  “I  suppose  that’s 
true.” 

“ You  said  Jadwin  struck  you  as  being  a kindly  man, 
a generous  man.  He’s  just  that,  and  that  charitable ! 
You  know  he  has  a -Sunday-school  over  on  the  West 
Side,  a Sunday-school  for  mission  children,  and  I do 
believe  he’s  more  interested  in  that  than  in  his  business. 
He  wants  to  make  it  the  biggest  Sunday-school  in  Chi- 
cago. It’s  an  ambition  of  his.  I don’t  want  you  to 
think  that  he’s  good  in  a goody-goody  way,  because 
he’s  not.  Laura,”  she  exclaimed,  “ he’s  a Une  man.  I 
didn’t  intend  to  brag  him  up  to  you,  because  I wanted 
you  to  like  him.  But  no  one  knows — as  I say — no  one 
knows  Curtis  Jadwin  better  than  Charlie  and  I,  and  we 
just  love  him.  The  kindliest,  biggest-hearted  fellow — 
oh,  well,  you’ll  know  him  for  yourself,  and  then  you’ll 
see.  He  passes  the  plate  in  our  church.” 

“Dr.  Wendell’s  church?”  asked  Laura. 

“ Yes  you  know — the  Second  Presbyterian.” 

“ I’m  Episcopalian  myself,”  observed  Laura,  still 
thoughtfully  gazing  into  the  fire. 

“ I knov/,  I know.  But  Jadwin  isn’t  the  blue-nosed 
sort.  And  now  see  here,  Laura,  I want  to  tell  you. 
J. — that’s  what  Charlie  and  I call  Jadwin — ^J.  was  talk- 
ing to  us  the  other  day  about  supporting  a ward  in 


74 


The  Pit 


the  Children’s  Hospital  for  the  children  of  his  Sunday- 
school  that  get  hurt  or  sick.  You  see  he  has  nearly 
eight  hundred  boys  and  girls  in  his  school,  and  there’s 
not  a week  passes  that  he  don’t  hear  of  some  one  of 
them  who  has  been  hurt  or  taken  sick.  And  he  wants 
to  start  a ward  at  the  Children’s  Hospital,  that  can  take 
care  of  them.  He  says  he  wants  to  get  other  people 
interested,  too,  and  so  he  wants  to  start  a contribution. 
He  says  he’ll  double  any  amount  that’s  raised  in  the 
next  six  months — that  is,  if  there’s  two  thousand  raised, 
he’ll  make  it  four  thousand;  understand?  And  so 
Charlie  and  I and  the  Gretrys  are  going  to  get  up  an 
amateur  play — a charity  affair — and  raise  as  much 
money  as  we  can.  J.  thinks  it’s  a good  idea,  and — 
here’s  the  point — ^we  were  talking  about  it  coming 
home  in  the  carriage,  and  J.  said  he  wondered  if  that 
Miss  Dearborn  wouldn’t  take  part.  And  we  are  all 
wild  to  have  you.  You  know  you  do  that  sort  of  thing 
so  well.  Now  don’t  say  yes  or  no  to-night.  You  sleep 
over  it.  J.  is  crazy  to  have  you  in  it.” 

“ I’d  love  to  do  it,”  answered  Laura.  “ But  I would 
have  to  see — it  takes  so  long  to  get  settled,  and  there’s 
so  much  to  do  about  a big  house  like  ours,  I might  not 
have  time.  But  I will  let  you  know.” 

Mrs.  Cressler  told  her  in  detail  about  the  proposed 
play.  Landry  Court  was  to  take  part,  and  she  enlisted 
Laura’s  influence  to  get  Sheldon  Corthell  to  under- 
take a role.  Page,  it  appeared,  had  already  promised 
to  help.  Laura  remembered  now  that  she  had  heard 
her  speak  of  it.  However,  the  plan  was  so  immature 
as  yet,  that  it  hardly  admitted  of  very  much  discussion, 
and  inevitably  the  conversation  came  back  to  its  start- 
ing-point. 

“You  know,”  Laura  had  remarked  in  answer  to  one 
of  Mrs.  Cressler’s  observations  upon  the  capabilities 


75 


A Story  of  Chicago 

and  business  ability  of  “ J.”  “ you  know  I never  heard 
of  him  before  you  spoke  of  our  theatre  party.  I don’t 
know  anything  about  him.” 

^But  Mrs.  Cressler  promptly  supplied  the  information. 
Curtis  Jadwin  was  a man  about  thirty-five,  who  had 
begun  life  without  a sou  in  his  pockets.  He  was  a 
native  of  Michigan,  His  people  were  farmers,  nothing 
more  nor  less  than  hardy,  honest  fellows,  who  ploughed 
and  sowed  for  a living.  Curtis  had  only  a rudimentary 
schooling,  because  he  had  given  up  the  idea  of  finishing 
his  studies  in  the  High  School  in  Grand  Rapids,  on  the 
chance  of  going  into  business  with  a livery  stable 
keeper.  Then  in  time  he  had  bought  out  the  business 
and  had  run  it  for  himself.  Some  one  in  Chicago  owed 
him  money,  and  in  default  of  payment  had  offered  him 
a couple  of  lots  on  Wabash  Avenue.  That  was  how 
he  happened  to  come  to  Chicago.  Naturally  enough 
as  the  city  grew  the  Wabash  Avenue  property — it  was 
near  Monroe  Street — increased  in  value.  He  sold  the 
lots  and  bought  other  real  estate,  sold  that  and  bought 
somewhere  else,  and  so  on,  till  he  owned  some  of  the 
best  business  sites  in  the  city.  Just  his  ground  rent 
alone  brought  him,  heaven  knew  how  many  thousands  a 
year.  He  was  one  of  the  largest  real  estate  owners 
in  Chicago.  But  he  no  longer  bought  and  sold.  His 
property  had  grown  so  large  that  just  the  manage- 
ment of  it  alone  took  up  most  of  his  time.  He  had 
an  office  in  the  Rookery,  and  perhaps  being  so  close 
to  the  Board  of  Trade  Building,  had  given  him  a taste 
for  trying  a little  deal  in  wheat  now  and  then.  As  a 
rule,  he  deplored  speculation.  He  had  no  fixed  prin- 
ciples abouOtTlike  CharTteT’  Only  he  was  conservative ; 
occasionally  he  hazarded  small  operations.  Somehow 
he  had  never  married.  There  had  been  affairs.  Oh, 
yes,  one  or  two,  of  course.  Nothing  very  serious.  He 


76 


The  Pit 


just  didn’t  seem  to  have  met  the  right  girl,  that  was 
all.  He  lived  on  Michigan  Avenue,  near  the  corner  of 
Twenty-first  Street,  in  one  of  those  discouraging  eter- 
nal yellow  limestone  houses  with  a basement  dining- 
room. His  aunt  kept  house  for  him,  and  his  nieces 
and  nephews  overran  the  place.  There  was  always  a 
raft  of  them  there,  either  coming  or  going;  and  the  way 
they  exploited  him!  He  supported  them  all;  heaven 
knew  how  many  there  were ; such  drabs  and  gawks,  all 
elbows  and  knees,  who  soaked  themselves  with  cologne 
and  made  companions  of  the  servants.  They  and  the 
second  girls  were  always  squabbling  about  their  things 
that  they  found  in  each  other’s  room^ 

It  was  growing  late.  At  length  Mrs.  Cressler  rose. 

“ My  goodness,  Laura,  look  at  the  time ; and  I’ve 
been  keeping  you  up  when  you  must  be  killed  for  sleep.” 

She  took  herself  away,  pausing  at  the  doorway  long 
enough  to  say : 

“ Do  try  to  manage  to  take  part  in  the  play.  J. 
made  me  promise  that  I would  get  you.” 

“Well,  I think  I can,”  Laura  answered.  “Only  I’ll 
have  to  see  first  how  our  new  regime  is  going  to  run — 
the  house  I mean.” 

When  Mrs.  Cressler  had  gone  Laura  lost  no  time  in 
getting  to  bed.  But  after  she  turned  out  the  gas  she 
remembered  that  she  had  not  “ covered  ” the  fire,  a 
custom  that  she  still  retained  from  the  daily  round  of 
her  life  at  Barrington.  She  did  not  light  the  gas  again, 
but  guided  by  the  firelight,  spread  a shovelful  of  ashes 
over  the  top  of  the  grate.  Yet  when  she  had  done  this, 
she  still  knelt  there  a moment,  looking  wide-eyed  into 
the  glow,  thinking  over  the  events  of  the  last  twenty- 
four  hours.  When  all  was  said  and  done,  she  had, 
after  all,  found  more  in  Chicago  than  the  clash  and 
trepidation  of  empire-making,  more  than  the  reverbera- 


A Story  of  Chicago  77 

tion  of  the  thunder  of  battle,  more  than  the  piping  and 
choiring  of  sweet  music. 

First  it  had  been  Sheldon  Corthell,  quiet,  persuasive, 
eloquent.  Then  Landry  Court  with  his  exuberance 
and  extravagance  and  boyishness,  and  now — unex- 
pectedly— behold,  a new  element  had  appeared — this 
other  one,  this  man  of  the  world,  of  affairs,  mature, 
experienced,  whom  she  hardly  knew.  It  was  charming 
she  told  herself,  exciting.  Life  never  had  seemed  half 
so  delightful.  Romantic,  she  felt  Romance,  unseen,  in- 
tangible, at  work  all  about  her.  And  love,  which  of  all 
things  knowable  was  dearest  to  her,  came  to  her  un- 
sought. 

Her  first  aversion  to  the  Great  Grey  City  was  fast 
disappearing.  She  saw  it  now  in  a kindlier  aspect. 

“ I think,”  she  said  at  last,  as  she  still  knelt  before 
the  fire,  looking  deep  into  the  coals,  absorbed,  ab- 
stracted, “ I think  that  I am  going  to  be  very  happy 
here.” 


Ill 


On  a certain  Monday  morning,  about  a month  later,  | 
Curtis  Jadwin  descended  from  his  office  in  the  Rookery  | 
Building,  and  turning  southward,  took  his  way  toward  i 
the  brokerage  and  commission  office  of  Gretry,  Con-  ■ 
verse  and  Co.,  on  the  ground  floor  of  the  Board  of 
Trade  Building,  only  a few  steps  away. 

It  was  about  nine  o’clock ; the  weather  was  mild,  the 
sun  shone.  La  Salle  Street  swarmed  with  the  multi-  \ 
tudinous  life  that  seethed  about  the  doors  of  the  in- 
numerable offices  of  brokers  and  commission  men  of  i 
the  neighbourhood.  To  the  right,  in  the  peristyle  of  i 
the  Illinois  Trust  Building,  groups  of  clerks,  of  mes- 
sengers, of  brokers,  of  clients,  and  of  depositors  formed 
and  broke  incessantly.  To  the  left,  where  the  facade 
of  the  Board  of  Trade  blocked  the  street,  the  activity  ’ 
was  astonishing,  and  in  and  out  of  the  swing  doors  of 
its  entrance  streamed  an  incessant  tide  of  coming  and 
going.  All  the  life  of  the  neighbourhood  seemed  to 
centre  at  this  point — the  entrance  of  the  Board  of 
Trade.  Two  currents  that  trended  swiftly  through  La 
Salle  and  Jackson  streets,  and  that  fed,  or  were  fed  by, 
other  tributaries  that  poured  in  through  Fifth  Avenue  j 
and  through  Clarke  and  Dearborn  streets,  met  at  this 
point — one  setting  in,  the  other  out.  The  nearer  the 
currents  the  greater  their  speed.  Men — mere  flotsam 
in  the  flood — as  they  turned  into  La  Salle  Street  from  ^ 
Adams  or  from  Monroe,  or  even  from  as  far  as  Madi- 
son, seemed  to  accelerate  their  pace  as  they  approached.  ' 
At  the  Illinois  Trust  the  walk  became  a stride,  at  the 


79 


A Story  of  Chicago 

Rookery  the  stride  was  almost  a trot.  But  at  the 
corner  of  Jackson  Street,  the  Board  of  Trade  now 
merely  the  width  of  the  street  away,  the  trot  became  a 
run,  and  young  men  and  boys,  under  the  pretence  of 
escaping  the  trucks  and  wagons  of  the  cobbles,  dashed 
across  at  a veritable  gallop,  flung  themselves  panting 
into  the  entrance  of  the  Board,  were  engulfed  in  the 
turmoil  of  the  spot,  and  disappeared  with  a sudden 
fillip  into  the  gloom  of  the  interior. 

Often  Jadwin  had  noted  the  scene,  and,  unimaginative 
though  he  was,  had  long  since  conceived  the  notion  of 
some  great,  some  resistless  force  within  the  Board  of 
Trade  Building  that  held  the  tide  of  the  streets  within 
its  grip,  alternately  drawing  it  in  and  throwing  it  forth. 
Within  there,  a great  whirlpool,  a pit  of  roaring  waters 
spun  and  thundered,  sucking  in  the  life  tides  of  the 
city,  sucking  them  in  as  into  the  mouth  of  some  tre- 
mendous cloaca,  the  maw  of  some  colossal  sewer ; then 
vomiting  them  forth  again,  spewing  them  up  and  out, 
only  to  catch  them  in  the  return  eddy  and  suck  them 
in  afresh. 

Thus  it  went,  day  after  day.  Endlessly,  ceaselessly 
the  Pit,  enormous,  thundering,  sucked  in  and  spewed 
out,  sending  the  swirl  of  its  mighty  central  eddy  far  out  j 
through  the  city’s  channels.  Terrible  at  the  centre,  it 
was,  at  the  circumference,  gentle,  insidious  and  per- 
suasive, the  send  of  the  flowing  so  mild,  that  to  embark 
upon  it,  yielding  to  the  influence,  was  a pleasure  that  ' 
seemed  all  devoid  of  risk.  But  the  circumference  was 
not  bounded  by  the  city.  All  through  the  Northwest, 
all  through  the  central  world  of  the  Wheat  the  set  and 
whirl  of  that  innermost  Pit  made  itself  felt;  and  it 
spread  and  spread  and  spread  till  grain  in  the  ele- 
vators of  Western  Iowa  moved  and  stirred  and  an- 
swered to  its  centripetal  force,  and  men  upon  the 


8o 


The  Pit 


streets  of  New  York  felt  the  mysterious  tugging  of  its 
undertow  engage  their  feet,  embrace  their  bodies,  over- 
whelm them,  and  carry  them  bewildered  and  unresist- 
ing back  and  downwards  to  the  Pit  itself. 

Nor  was  the  Pit’s  centrifugal  power  any  less.  Be- 
cause of  some  sudden  eddy  spinning  outward  from  the 
middle  of  its  turmoil,  a dozen  bourses  of  continental 
Europe  clamoured  with  panic,  a dozen  Old-World 
banks,  firm  as  the  established  hills,  trembled  and  vi- 
brated. Because  of  an  unexpected  caprice  in  the 
swirling  of  the  inner  current,  some  far-distant  channel 
suddenly  dried,  and  the  pinch  of  famine  made  itself  felt 
among  the  vine  dressers  of  Northern  Italy,  the  coal 
miners  of  Western  Prussia.  Or  another  channel  filled, 
and  the  starved  moujik  of  the  steppes,  and  the  hunger^ 
shrunken  coolie  of  the  Ganges’  watershed  fed  suddenly 
fat  and  made  thank  offerings  before  ikon  and  idol. 

There*  in  the  centre  of  the  Nation,  midmost  of  that 
continent  that  lay  between  the  oceans  of  the  New 
World  and  the  Old,  in  the  heart’s  heart  of  the  affairs 
of  men,  roared  and  rumbled  the^it.  It  was  as  if  the 
Wheat,  Nourisher  of  the  Nations^-^as  it  rolled  gigantic 
and'  fnaje^^c~in‘a'vast  llo^  from  West  to  East,  here, 
like  a Niagara,  finding  its  flow  impeded,  burst  suddenly 
into  the  appalling  fury  of  the  Maelstrom,  into  the  cha- 
otic spasm  of  a world-force,  a primeval  energ}',  blood- 
brother  of  the  earthquake  and  the  glacier,  raging  and 
wrathful  that  its  power  should  be  braved  by  some  pinch 
of  human  spawn  that  dared  raise  barriers  across  its 
courses. 

Small  wonder  that  Cressler  laughed  at  the  thought 
of  cornering  wheat,  and  even  now  as  Jadwin  crossed 
Jackson  Street,  on  his  way  to  his  broker’s  office  on  the 
lower  floor  of  the  Board  of  Trade  Building,  he  noted 
the  ebb  and  flow  that  issued  from  its  doors,  and  re- 


A Story  of  Chicago  8i 

membered  the  huge  river  of  wheat  that  rolled  through 
this  place  from  the  farms  of  Iowa  and  ranches  of  Da- 
kota to  the  mills  and  bakeshops  of  Europe. 

“ There’s  something,  perhaps,  in  what  Charlie  says,”' 
he  said  to  himself.  “ Corner  this  stuff — my  God ! ” 

Gretry,  Converse  & Co.  was  the  name  of  the  bro- 
kerage firm  that  always  handled  Jadwin’s  rare  specu- 
lative ventures.  Converse  was  dead  long  since,  but  the 
firm  still  retained  its  original  name.  The  house  was 
as  old  and  as  well  established  as  any  on  the  Board  of 
Trade.  It  had  a reputation  for  conservatism,  and  was 
known  more  as  a Bear  than  a Bull  concern.  It  was 
immensely  wealthy  and  immensely  important.  It  dis- 
couraged the  growth  of  a clientele  of  country  cus- 
tomers, of  small  adventurers,  knowing  well  that  these 
were  the  first  to  go  in  a crash,  unable  to  meet  margin 
calls,  and  leaving  to  their  brokers  the  responsibility 
of  their  disastrous  trades.  The  large,  powerful  Bears 
were  its  friends,  the  Bears  strong  of  grip,  tenacious 
of  jaw,  capable  of  pulling  down  the  strongest  Bull. 
Thus  the  firm  had  no  consideration  for  the  “ outsiders,” 
the  “ public  ” — the  Lambs.  The  Lambs ! Such  a herd, 
timid,  innocent,  feeble,  as  much  out  of  place  in  La  Salle 
Street  as  a puppy  in  a cage  of  panthers;  the  Lambs, 
whom  Bull  and  Bear  did  not  so  much  as  condescend 
to  notice,  but  who,  in  their  mutual  struggle  of  horn 
and  claw,  they  crushed  to  death  by  the  mere  rolling  of 
their  bodies. 

Jadwin  did  not  go  directly  into  Gretry’s  main  office, 
but  instead  made  his  way  in.  at  the  entrance  of  the 
Board  of  Trade  Building,  and  going  on  past  the  stair- 
ways that  on  either  hand  led  up  to  the  “ Floor  ” on  the 
second  story,  entered  the  corridor  beyond,  and  thence 
gained  the  customers’  room  of  Gretry,  Converse  & Co. 
All  the  more  important  brokerage  firms  had  offices  on 


6 


82 


The  Pit 


the  ground  floor  of  the  building,  oflices  that  had  two  en- 
trances, one  giving  upon  the  street,  and  one  upon  the 
corridor  of  the  Board.  Generally  the  corridor  entrance 
admitted  directly  to  the  firm’s  customers’  room.  This 
was  the  case  with  the  Gretry-Converse  house. 

Once  in  the  customers’  room,  Jadwin  paused,  look- 
ing about  him. 

He  could  not  tell  why  Gretry  had  so  earnestly  desired 
him  to  come  to  his  office  that  morning,  but  he  wanted 
to  know  how  wheat  was  selling  before  talking  to  the 
broker.  The  room  was  large,  and  but  for  the  lighted 
gas,  burning  crudely  without  globes,  would  have  been 
dark.  All  one  wall  opposite  the  door  was  taken  up 
by  a great  blackboard  covered  with  chalked  figures  in 
columns,  and  illuminated  by  a row  of  overhead  gas  jets 
burning  under  a tin  reflector.  Before  this  board  files 
of  chairs  were  placed,  and  these  were  occupied  by 
groups  of  nondescripts,  shabbily  dressed  men,  5'oung 
and  old,  with  tired  eyes  and  unhealthy  complexions, 
who  smoked  and  expectorated,  or  engaged  in  inter- 
minable conversations. 

In  front  of  the  blackboard,  upon  a platform,  a young 
man  in  shirt-sleeves,  his  cuffs  caught  up  by  metal 
clamps,  walked  up  and  down.  Screwed  to  the  black- 
board itself  was  a telegraph  instrument,  and  from  time 
to  time,  as  this  buzzed  and  ticked,  the  young  man 
chalked  up  cabalistic,  and  almost  illegible  figures  under 
columns  headed  by  initials  of  certain  stocks  and  bonds, 
or  by  the  words  ‘‘  Pork,”  “ Oats,”  or,  larger  than  all  the 
others,  “ May  Wheat.”  The  air  of  the  room  was  stale, 
close,  and  heavy  with  tobacco  fumes.  The  only  noises 
were  the  low  hum  of  conversations,  the  unsteady  click 
of  the  telegraph  key,  and  the  tapping  of  the  chalk  in 
the  marker’s  fingers. 

But  no  one  in  the  room  seemed  to  pay  the  least  at* 


A Story  of  Chicago 


83 


tention  to  the  blackboard.  One  quotation  replaced  an- 
other, and  the  key  and  the  chalk  clicked  and  tapped 
incessantly.  The  occupants  of  the  room,  sunk  in  their 
chairs,  seemed  to  give  no  heed ; some  even  turned  their 
backs;  one,  his  handkerchief  over  his  knee,  adjusted 
his  spectacles,  and  opening  a newspaper  two  days  old, 
began  to  read  with  peering  deliberation,  his  lips  form- 
ing each  word.  These  nondescripts  gathered  there, 
they  knew  not  why.  Every  day  found  them  in  the  same 
place,  always  with  the  same  fetid,  unlighted  cigars, 
always  with  the  same  frayed  newspapers  two  days  old. 
There  they  sat,  inert,  stupid,  their  decaying  senses  hyp- 
notised and  soothed  by  the  sound  of  the  distant  rumble 
of  the  Pit,  that  came  through  the  ceiling  from  the  floor 
of  the  Board  overhead. 

One  of  these  figures,  that  of  a very  old  man,  blear- 
eyed,  decrepit,  dirty,  in  a battered  top  hat  and  faded 
frock  coat,  discoloured  and  weather-stained  at  the  shoul- 
ders, seemed  familiar  to  Jadwin.  It  recalled  some  an- 
cient association,  he  could  not  say  what.  But  he  was 
unable  to  see  the  old  man’s  face  distinctly;  the  light 
was  bad,  and  he  sat  with  his  face  turned  from  him,  eat- 
ing a sandwich,  which  he  held  in  a trembling  hand. 

Jadwin,  having  noted  that  wheat  was  selling  at  94, 
went  away,  glad  to  be  out  of  the  depressing  atmosphere 
of  the  room. 

Gretry  was  in  his  office,  and  Jadwin  was  admitted  at 
once.  He  sat  down  in  a chair  by  the  broker’s  desk, 
.^nd  for  the  moment  the  two  talked  of  trivialities. 
(jGretry  was  a large,  placid,  smooth-faced  man,  stolid 
as  an  ox ; inevitably  dressed  in  blue  serge,  a quill  tooth- 
pick behind  his  ear,  a Grand  Army  button  in  his  lapel. 
He  and  Jadwin  were  intimates.  The  two  had  come  to 
Chicago  almost  simultaneously,  and  had  risen  together 
to  become  the  wealthy  men  they  were  at  the  mo- 


84 


The  Pit 


merit.  They  belonged  to  the  same  club,  lunched  to- 
gether every  day  at  Kinsley’s,  and  took  each  other 
driving  behind  their  respective  trotters  on  alternate 
Saturday  afternoons.  In  the  middle  of  summer  each 
stole  a fortnight  from  his  business,  and  went  fishing  at 
Geneva  Lake  in  Wisconsin^ 

“ I say,”  Jadwin  observed,  “ I saw  an  old  fellow  out- 
side in  your  customers’  room  just  now  that  put  me  in 
mind  of  Hargus.  You  remember  that  deal  of  his,  the 
one  he  tried  to  swing  before  he  died.  Oh — how  long 
ago  was  that  ? Bless  my  soul,  that  must  have  been  fif- 
teen, yes  twenty  years  ago.” 

The  deal  of  which  Jadwin  spoke  was  the  legendary 
operation  of  the  Board  of  Trade — a mammoth  corner 
in  September  wheat,  manipulated  by  this  same  Hargus, 
a millionaire,  who  had  tripled  his  fortune  by  the  corner, 
and  had  lost  it  by  some  chicanery  on  the  part  of  his  asso- 
ciate before  another  year.  He  had  run  wheat  up  to 
nearly  two  dollars,  had  been  in  his  day  a king  all-power- 
ful. Since  then  all  deals  had  been  spoken  of  in  terms  of 
the  Hargus  affair.  Speculators  said,  “ It  was  almost  as 
bad  as  the  Hargus  deal.”  “ It  was  like  the  Hargus 
smash.”  “ It  was  as  big  a thing  as  the  Hargus  corner.” 
Hargus  had  become  a sort  of  creature  of  legends,  myth- 
ical, heroic,  transfigured  in  the  glory  of  his  millions. 

“ Easily  twenty  years  ago,”  continued  Jadwin.  “ If 
Hargus  could  come  to  life  now,  he’d  be  surprised  at 
the  difference  in  the  way  we  do  business  these  days. 
Twenty  years.  Yes,  it’s  all  of  that.  I declare,  Sam, 
we’re  getting  old,  aren’t  we  ? ” 

“ I guess  that  was  Hargus  you  saw  out  there,”  an- 
swered the  broker.  “ He’s  not  dead.  Old  fellow  in  a 
stove-pipe  and  greasy  frock  coat?  Yes,  that’s  Har- 
gus.” 

“ What ! ” exclaimed  Jadwin.  “ That  Hargus  ? ” 


A Story  of  Chicago  85 

" Of  course  it  was.  He  comes  ’round  every  day.  The 
clerks  give  him  a dollar  every  now  and  then.” 

! “And  he’s  not  dead?  And  that  was  Hargus,  that 
wretched,  broken — whew!  I don’t  want  to  think  of  it, 
Sam ! ” And  Jadwin,  taken  all  aback,  sat  for  a moment 
speechless. 

j “ Yes,  sir,”  muttered  the  broker  grimly,  “ that  was 
Hargus.” 

I There  was  a long  silence.  Then  at  last  Gretry  ex- 
claimed briskly : 

“ Well,  here’s  what  I want  to  see  you  about.” 

He  lowered  his  voice : “ You  know  I’ve  got  a corre- 
spondent or  two  at  Paris — all  the  brokers  have — and  we 
make  no  secret  as  to  who  they  are.  But  I’ve  had  an 
extra  man  at  work  over  there  for  the  last  six  months, 
very  much  on  the  quiet.  I don’t  mind  telling  you  this 
much — that  he’s  not  the  least  important  member  of  the 
United  States  Legation.  Well,  now  and  then  he  is 
supposed  to  send  me  what  the  reporters  call  “ exclu- 
sive news  ” — that’s  what  I feed  him  for,  and  I could 
run  a private  steam  yacht  on  what  it  costs  me.  But 
news  I get  from  him  is  a day  or  so  in  advance  of  every- 
body else.  He  hasn’t  sent  me  anything  very  important 
till  this  morning.  This  here  just  came  in.” 

He  picked  up  a despatch  from  his  desk  and  read : 

“‘Utica  — headquarters  — modification  — organic  — 
concomitant — within  one  month,’  which  means,”  he 
added,  “ this.  I’ve  just  deciphered  it,”  and  he  handed 
Jadwin  a slip  of  paper  on  which  was  written : 

“ Bill  providing  for  heavy  import  duties  on  foreign 
grains  certain  to  be  introduced  in  French  Chamber  of 
Deputies  within  one  month.” 

“ Have  you  got  it  ? ” he  demanded  of  Jadwin,  as  he 
took  the  slip  back.  “Won’t  forget  it?”  He  twisted 
the  paper  into  a roll  and  burned  it  carefully  in  the  of- 
fice cuspidor. 


86 


The  Pit 


“Now,”  he  remarked,  “do  you  come  in?  It’s  just 
the  two  of  us,  J.,  and  I think  we  can  make  that  Porteous 
digue  look  very  sick.” 

C“Hum!”  murmured  Jadwin  surprised.  “That  does 
giVe  you  a twist  on  the  situation.  But  to  tell  the  truth, 
Sam,  I had  sort  of  made  up  my  mind  to  keep  out  of 
speculation  since  my  last  little  deal.  A man  gets  into 
this  game,  and  into  it,  and  into  it,  and  before  you  know 
he  can’t  pull  out — and  he  don’t  want  to.  Next  he  gets 
his  nose  scratched,  and  he  hits  back  to  make  up  for  it, 
and  just  hits  into  the  air  and  loses  his  balance — and 
down  he  goes.  I don’t  want  to  make  any  more  money, 
Sam.  I’ve  got  my  little  pile,  and  before  I get  too  old 
I want  to  have  some  fun  out  of  it.” 

“But  lord  love  you,  J.,”  objected  the  other,  “this 
ain’t  speculation.  You  can  see  for  yourself  how  sure  it 
is.  I’m  not  a baby  at  this  business,  am  I?  You’ll  let 
me  know  something  of  this  game,  won’t  you?  And  I 
tell  you,  J.,  it’s  found  money.  The  man  that  sells  wheat 
short  on  the  strength  of  this  has  as  good  as  got  the 
money  in  his  vest  pocket  already.  Oh,  nonsense,  of 
course  you’ll  come  in.  I’ve  been  laying  for  that  Bull 
gang  since  long  before  the  Helmick  failure,  and  now 
I’ve  got  it  right  where  I want  it.  Look  here,  J.,  you 
aren’t  the  man  to  throw  money  away.  You’d  bu)'  a 
' ■ 11-  1 -r  1 ou  could  sell  it  over  again 


chance  to  make  really  a 


fine  Bear  deal.  Why,  as  soon  as  this  news  gets  on  the 
floor  there,  the  price  will  bust  right  down,  and  down, 
and  down.  Porteous  and  his  crowd  couldn’t  keep  it  up 
to  save  ’em  from  the  receiver’s  hand  one  single  minute^ 
“ I know,  Sam,”  answered  Jadwin,  “ and  the  trouble 
is,  not  that  I don’t  want  to  speculate,  but  that  I do-^ 
too  much.  That’s  why  I said  I’d  keep  out  of  it.  It  isn’t 
so  much  the  money  as  the  fun  of  playing  the  game. 


8; 


A Story  of  Chicago 

With  half  a show,  I would  get  in  a little  more  and 
a little  more,  till  by  and  by  I’d  try  to  throw  a big  thing, 
and  instead,  the  big  thing  would  throw  me.  Why, 
Sam,  when  you  told  me  that  that  wreck  out  there 
mumbling  a sandwich  was  Hargus,  it  made  me  turn 
cold.” 

“ Yes,  in  your  feet,”  retorted  Gretry.  “ I’m  not  ask- 
ing you  to  risk  all  your  money,  am  I,  or  a fifth  of  it, 
or  a twentieth  of  it?  Don’t  be  an  ass,  J.  Are  we  a 
conservative  house,  or  aren’t  we?  Do  I talk  like  this 
when  I’m  not  sure?  Look  here.  Let  me  sell  a mil- 
lion bushels  for  you.  Yes,  I know  it’s  a bigger  order 
than  I’ve  handled  for  you  before.  But  this  time  I 
want  to  go  right  into  it,  head  down  and  heels  up,  and  get 
a twist  on  those  Porteous  buckoes,  and  raise  ’em  right 
out  of  their  boots.  We  get  a crop  report  this  morn- 
ing, and  if  the  visible  supply  is  as  large  as  I think  it 
is,  the  price  will  go  off  and  unsettle  the  whole  market. 
I’ll  sell  short  for  you  at  the  best  figures  we  can  get, 
and  you  can  cover  on  the  slump  any  time  between  now 
and  the  end  of  May.” 

Jadwin  hesitated.  In  spite  of  himself  he  felt  a 
Chance  had  come,  ^^gain  that  strange  sixth  sense  of 
his,  the  inexplicable  instinct,  that  only  the  born  specu- 
lator knows,  warned  him.  Every  now  and  then  during 
the  course  of  his  business  career,  this  intuition  came 
to  him,  this  hair,  this  intangible,  vague  premonition, 
this  presentiment  that  he  must  seize  Opportunity  or  else 
Fortune,  that  so  long  had  stayed  at  his  elbow,  would 
desert  him.  In  the  air  about  him  he  seemed  to  feel 
an  influence,  a sudden  new  element,  the  presence  of 
a new  force.  It  was  Luck,  the  great  power,  the  great 
goddess,  and  all  at  once  it  had  stooped  from  out  the 
invisible,  and  just  over  his  head  passed  swiftly  in  a rush 
of  glittering  winf^ 


88 


The  Pit 


“ The  thing  would  have  to  be  handled  like  glass,”  ob- 
served the  broker  thoughtfully,  his  eyes  narrowing. 
“A  tip  like  this  is  public  property  in  twenty-four  hours, 
and  it  don’t  give  us  any  too  much  time.  I don’t  want 
to  break  the  price  by  unloading  a million  or  more 
bushels  on  ’em  all  of  a sudden.  I’ll  scatter  the  orders 
pretty  evenly.  You  see,”  he  added,  “ here’s  a big 
point  in  our  favor.  We’ll  be  able  to  sell  on  a strong 
market.  The  Pit  traders  have  got  some  crazy  war 
rumour  going,  and  they’re  as  flighty  over  it  as  a young 
ladies’  seminary  over  a great  big  rat.  And  even  with- 
out that,  the  market  is  top-heavy.  Porteous  makes  me 
weary.  He  and  his  gang  have  been  bucking  it  up  till 
we’ve  got  an  abnormal  price.  Ninety-four  for  May 
wheat ! Why,  it’s  ridiculous.  Ought  to  be  selling  way 
down  in  the  eighties.  The  least  little  jolt  would  tip 
her  over.  Well,”  he  said  abruptly,  squaring  himself 
at  Jadwin,  “ do  we  come  in?  If  that  same  luck  of  yours 
is  still  in  working  order,  here’s  your  chance,  J.,  to  make 
a killing.  There’s  just  that  gilt-edged,  full-morocco 
chance  that  a report  of  big  ‘ visible  ’ would  give  us.” 

Jadwin  laughed.  “ Sam,”  he  said,  “ I’ll  flip  a coin 
for  it.” 

” Oh,  get  out,”  protested  the  broker ; then  suddenly 
— the  gambling  instinct  that  a lifetime  passed  in  that 
place  had  cultivated  in  him — exclaimed : 

“ All  right.  Flip  a coin.  But  give  me  your  word 
you’ll  stay  by  it.  Heads  you  come  in;  tails  you  don’t. 
Will  you  give  me  your  word  ? ” 

” Oh,  I don’t  know  about  that,”  replied  Jadvdn, 
amused  at  the  foolishness  of  the  whole  proceeding. 
But  as  he  balanced  the  half-dollar  on  his  thumb-nail, 
he  was  all  at  once  absolutely  assured  that  it  would  fall 
heads.  He  flipped  it  in  the  air,  and  even  as  he  watched 
it  spin,  said  to  himself,  “ It  will  come  heads.  It  could 
not  possibly  be  anything  else.  I know  it  will  be  heads.” 


89 


A Story  of  Chicago 

And  as  a matter  of  course  the  coin  fell  heads. 

“ All  right/’  he  said,  “ I’ll  come  in.” 

“ For  a million  bushels  ? ” 

“ Yes — for  a million.  How  much  in  margins  will  you 
want  ? ” 

Gretry  figured  a moment  on  the  back  of  an  en- 
velope. 

“ Fifty  thousand  dollars,”  he  announced  at  length. 

Jadwin  wrote  the  check  on  a corner  of  the  broker’s 
desk,  and  held  it  a moment  before  him. 

“ Good-bye,”  he  said,  apostrophising  the  bit  of  paper. 
“ Good-bye.  I ne’er  shall  look  upon  your  like  again.” 

Gretry  did  not  laugh. 

“ Huh ! ” he  grunted.  “ You’ll  look  upon  a hatful  of 
tnem  before  the  month  is  out.” 

That  same  morning  Landry  Court  found  himself  in 
the  corridor  on  the  ground  floor  of  the  Board  of  Trade 
about  nine  o’clock.  He  had  just  come  out  of  the  office 
of  Gretry,  Converse  & Co.,  where  he  and  the  other 
Pit  traders  for  the  house  had  been  receiving  their 
orders  for  the  day. 

As  he  was  buying  a couple  of  apples  at  the  news 
stand  at  the  end  of  the  corridor,  Semple  and  a young 
Jew  named  Hirsch,  Pit  traders  for  small  firms  in  La 
Salle  Street,  joined  him. 

“ Hello,  Court,  what  do  you  know?” 

“ Hello,  Barry  Semple ! Hello,  Hirsch ! ” Landry 
offered  the  halves  of  his  second  apple,  and  the  three 
stood  there  a moment,  near  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  talk- 
ing and  eating  their  apples  from  the  points  of  their 
penknives. 

“ I feel  sort  of  seedy  this  morning,”  Semple  observed 
between  mouthfuls.  “ Was  up  late  last  night  at  a stag. 
A friend  of  mine  just  got  back  from  Europe,  and  some 


90 


The  Pit 


of  the  boys  were  giving  him  a little  dinner.  He  was 
all  over  the  shop,  this  friend  of  mine ; spent  most  of 
his  time  in  Constantinople ; had  some  kind  of  news- 
paper business  there.  It  seems  that  it’s  a pretty  crazy 
proposition,  Turkey  and  the  Sultan  and  all  that.  He 
said  that  there  was  nearly  a row  over  the  ‘ Higgins- 
Pasha  ’ incident,  and  that  the  British  agent  put  it  pretty 
straight  to  the  Sultan’s  secretary.  My  friend  said  Con- 
stantinople put  him  in  mind  of  a lot  of  opera  bouffe 
scenery  that  had  got  spilled  out  in  the  mud.  Say, 
Court,  he  said  the  streets  were  dirtier  than  the  Chicago 
streets.” 

“ Oh,  come  now,”  said  Hirsch. 

“ Fact ! And  the  dogs ! He  told  us  he  knows  now 
where  all  the  yellow  dogs  go  to  when  they  die.” 

“ But  say,”  remarked  Hirsch,  “ what  is  that  about  the 
Higgins-Pasha  business?  I thought  that  was  over  long 
ago. 

“ Oh,  it  is,”  answered  Semple  easily.  He  looked  at 
his  watch.  “ I guess  it’s  about  time  to  go  up,  pretty 
near  half-past  nine.” 

The  three  mounted  the  stairs,  mingling  with  the 
groups  of  floor  traders  who,  in  steadily  increasing 
numbers,  had  begun  to  move  in  the  same  direction. 
But  on  the  way  Hirsch  was  stopped  by  his  brother. 

“ Hey,  I got  that  box  of  cigars  for  you.” 

Hirsch  paused.  “ Oh ! All  right,”  he  said,  then  he 
added:  “Say,  how  about  that  Higgins-Pasha  affair? 
You  remember  that  row  between  England  and  Turkey. 
They  tell  me  the  British  agent  in  Constantinople  put  it 
pretty  straight  to  the  Sultan  the  other  day.” 

The  other  was  interested.  “He  did,  hey?”  he  said. 
“ The  market  hasn’t  felt  it,  though.  Guess  there’s 
nothing  to  it.  But  there’s  Kelly  yonder.  He’d  know. 
He’s  pretty  thick  with  Porteous’  men.  Might  ask  him.” 


A Story  of  Chicago  91 

“ You  ask  him  and  let  me  know.  I got  to  go  on  the 
floor.  It’s  nearly  time  for  the  gong.” 

Hirsch’s  brother  found  Kelly  in  the  centre  of  a group 
of  settlement  clerks. 

“ Say,  boy,”  he  began,  “ you  ought  to  know.  They 
tell  me  there  may  be  trouble  between  England  and 
Turkey  over  the  Higgins-Pasha  incident,  and  that  the 
British  Foreign  Office  has  threatened  the  Sultan  with  an 
ultimatum.  I can  see  the  market  if  that’s  so.” 

“ Nothing  in  it,”  retorted  Kelly.  “ But  I’ll  find  out 
— to  make  sure,  by  jingo.” 

Meanwhile  Landry  had  gained  the  top  of  the  stairs, 
and  turning  to  the  right,  passed  through  a great  door- 
way, and  came  out  upon  the  floor  of  the  Board  of  Trade. 

It  was  a vast  enclosure,  lighted  on  either  side  by 
great  windows  of  coloured  glass,  the  roof  supported  by 
thin  iron  pillars  elaborately  decorated.  To  the  left 
were  the  bulletin  blackboards,  and  beyond  these,  in  the 
northwest  angle  of  the  floor,  a great  railed-in  space 
where  the  Western  Union  Telegraph  was  installed. 
To  the  right,  on  the  other  side  of  the  room,  a row  of 
tables,  laden  with  neatly  arranged  paper  bags  half  full 
of  samples  of  grains,  stretched  along  the  east  wall  from 
the  doorway  of  the  public  room  at  one  end  to  the  tele- 
phone room  at  the  other. 

The  centre  of  the  floor  was  occupied  by  the  pits. 
To  the  left  and  to  the  front  of  Landry  the  provision  pit, 
to  the  right  the  corn  pit,  while  further  on  at  the  north 
extremity  of  the  floor,  and  nearly  under  the  visitors’ 
gallery,  much  larger  than  the  other  two,  and  flanked 
by  the  wicket  of  the  official  recorder,  was  the  wheat 
pit  itself. 

Directly  opposite  the  visitors’  gallery,  high  upon  the 
south  wall  a great  dial  was  affixed,  and  on  the  dial  a 
marking  hand  that  indicated  the  current  price  of  wheat, 


92 


The  Pit 


fluctuating  with  the  changes  made  in  the  Pit.  Just  now 
it  stood  at  ninety-three  and  thr^-eighths,  the  closing 
quotation  of  the  preceding  day^^ 

As  yet  all  the  pits  were  er^ty.  It  was  some  fifteen 
minutes  after  nine.  Landry  checked  his  hat  and  coat 
at  the  coat  room  near  the  north  entrance,  and  slipped 
into  an  old  tennis  jacket  of  striped  blue  flannel.  Then, 
hatless,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  he  leisurely  crossed  the 
floor,  and  sat  down  in  one  of  the  chairs  that  were 
ranged  in  files  upon  the  floor  in  front  of  the  telegraph 
enclosure.  He  scrutinised  again  the  despatches  and 
orders  that  he  held  in  his  hands ; then,  having  fixed 
them  in  his  memory,  tore  them  into  very  small  bits, 
looking  vaguely  about  the  room,  developing  his  plan 
of_campaign  for  the  morning. 

.ii"  a sense  Landry  Court  had  a double  personality. 
Away  from  the  neighbourhood  and  influence  of  La  Salle 
Street,  he  was  “ rattle-brained,”  absent-minded,  im- 
practical, and  easily  excited,  the  last  fellow  in  the  world 
to  be  trusted  with  any  business  responsibility.  But  the 
thunder  of  the  streets  around  the  Board  of  Trade,  and, 
above  all,  the  movement  and  atmosphere  of  the  floor 
itself  awoke  within  him  a very  different  Landry  Court ; 
a whole  new  set  of  nerves  came  into  being  with  the  tap 
of  the  nine-thirty  gong,  a whole  new  system  of  brain 
machinery  began  to  move  with  the  first  figure  called 
in  the  Pit.  And  from  that  instant  until  the  close  of 
the  session,  no  floor  trader,  no  broker’s  clerk  nor 
scalper  was  more  alert,  more  shrewd,  or  kept  his  head 
more  surely  than  the  same  young  fellow  who  confused 
his  social  engagements  for  the  evening  of  the  same  day. 
The  Landry  Court  the  Dearborn  girls  knew  was  a far 
different  young  man  from  him  who  now  leaned  his  el- 
bows on  the  arms  of  the  chair  upon  the  floor  of  the 
Board,  and,  his  eyes  narrowing,  his  lips  tightening, 


A Story  of  Chicago  93 

began  to  speculate  upon  what  was  to  be  the  temper 
of  the  Pit  that  morningQ 

Meanwhile  the  floor  was  beginning  to  All  up.  Over 
in  the  railed-in  space,  where  the  hundreds  of  telegraph 
instruments  were  in  place,  the  operators  were  arriving 
in  twos  and  threes.  They  hung  their  hats  and  ulsters 
upon  the  pegs  in  the  wall  back  of  them,  and  in  linen 
coats,  or  in  their  shirt-sleeves,  went  to  their  seats,  or, 
sitting  upon  their  tables,  called  back  and  forth  to  each 
other,  joshing,  cracking  jokes.  Some  few  addressed 
themselves  directly  to  work,  and  here  and  there  the  in- 
termittent clicking  of  a key  began,  like  a diligent  cricket 
busking  himself  in  advance  of  its  mates. 

From  the  corridors  on  the  ground  floor  up  through 
the  south  doors  came  the  pit  traders  in  increasing 
groups.  The  noise  of  footsteps  began  to  echo  from  the 
high  vaulting  of  the  roof.  A messenger  boy  crossed 
the  floor  chanting  an  unintelligible  name. 

The  groups  of  traders  gradually  converged  upon  the 
corn  and  wheat  pits,  and  on  the  steps  of  the  latter, 
their  arms  crossed  upon  their  knees,  two  men,  one 
wearing  a silk  skull  cap  all  awry,  conversed  earnestly 
in  low  tones. 

Winston,  a great,  broad-shouldered  bass-voiced  fel- 
low of  some  thirty-five  years,  who  was  associated  with 
Landry  in  executing  the  orders  of  the  Gretry-Converse 
house,  came  up  to  him,  and,  omitting  any  salutation, 
remarked,  deliberately,  slowly: 

“ What’s  all  this  about  this  trouble  between  Turkey 
and  England  ? ” 

But  before  Landry  could  reply  a third  trader  for  the 
Gretry  Company  joined  the  two.  This  was  a young 
fellow  named  Rusbridge,  lean,  black-haired,  a constant 
excitement  glinting  m~HIs  deep-set  eyes. 

“ Say,”  he  exclaimed,  “ there’s  something  in  that, 
there’s  something  in  that ! ” 


94 


The  Pit 


“ Where  did  you  hear  it  ? ” demanded  Landry. 

“ Oh — everywhere.”  Rusbridge  made  a vague  ges- 
ture with  one  arm.  “ Hirsch  seemed  to  know  all  about 
it.  It  appears  that  there’s  talk  of  mobilising  the  Medi- 
terranean squadron.  Darned  if  I know.” 

“ Might  ask  that  ‘ Inter-Ocean  ’ reporter.  He’d  be 
likely  to  know.  I’ve  seen  him  ’round  here  this  morn- 
ing, or  you  might  telephone  the  Associated  Press,”  sug- 
gested Landry.  “ The  office  never  said  a word  to  me.” 

“ Oh,  the  ‘ Associated.’  They  know  a lot  always, 
don’t  they?”  jeered  Winston.  “Yes,  I rung  ’em  up. 
They  ‘ couldn’t  confirm  the  rumour.’  That’s  always  the 
way.  You  can  spend  half  a million  a year  in  leased 
wires  and  special  service  and  subscriptions  to  news 
agencies,  and  you  get  the  first  smell  of  news  like  this 
right  here  on  the  floor.  Remember  that  time  when 
the  Northwestern  millers  sold  a hundred  and  fifty  thou- 
sand barrels  at  one  lick?  The  floor  was  talking  of  it 
three  hours  before  the  news  slips  were  sent  ’round,  or 
a single  wire  was  in.  Suppose  we  had  waited  for  the 
Associated  people  or  the  Commercial  people  then?  ” 

“ It’s  that  Higgins-pasha  incident,  I’ll  bet,”  observed  j 
Rusbridge,  his  eyes  snapping.  j 

“ I heard  something  about  that  this  morning,”  re- 
turned Landry.  “ But  only  that  it  was ” i 

“There!  What  did  I tell  you?”  interrupted  Rus-  , 
bridge.  “ I said  it  was  everywhere.  There’s  no  smoke 
without  some  fire.  And  I wouldn’t  be  a bit  surprised 
if  we  get  cables  before  noon  that  the  British  War  Of- 
fice had  sent  an  ultimatum.” 

And  very  naturally  a few  minutes  later  Winston,  at  | 
that  time  standing  on  the  steps  of  the  corn  pit,  heard  j 
from  a certain  broker,  who  had  it  from  a friend  who  ^ 
had  just  received  a despatch  from  some  one  “ in  the  I 
know,”  that  the  British  Secretary  of  State  for  War 


A Story  of  Chicago 


95 


had  forwarded  an  ultimatum  to  the  Porte,  and  that 
diplomatic  relations  between  Turkey  and  England  were 
about  to  be  suspended. 

All  in  a moment  the  entire  Floor  seemed  to  be  talk- 
ing of  nothing  else,  and  on  the  outskirts  of  every  group 
one  could  overhear  the  words : “ Seizure  of  custom 
house,”  “ ultimatum,”  “ Eastern  question,”  “ Higgins- 
pasha  incident.”  It  was  the  rumour  of  the  day,  and 
before  very  long  the  pit  traders  began  to  receive  a 
multitude  of  despatches  countermanding  selling  orders, 
and  directing  them  not  to  close  out  trades  under  cer- 
tain very  advanced  quotations.  The  brokers  began 
wiring  their  principals  that  the  market  promised  to 
open  strong  and  bullish. 

But  by  now  it  was.  near  to  half-past  nine.  From  the 
Western  Union  desks  the  clicking  of  the  throng  of 
instruments  rose  into  the  air  in  an  incessant  staccato 
stridulation.  The  mesenger  boys  ran  back  and  forth 
at  top  speed,  dodging  in  and  out  among  the  knots  of 
clerks  and  traders,  colliding  with  one  another,  and 
without  interruption  intoning  the  names  of  those  for 
whom  they  had  despatches.  The  throng  of  traders 
concentrated  upon  the  pits,  and  at  every  moment  the 
deep-toned  hum  of  the  murmur  of  many  voices  swelled 
like  the  rising  of  a tide.  j/ 

And  at  this  moment,  as  Landry  stood  on  the  rini  of 
the  wheat  pit,  looking  towards  the  telephone  booth 
under  the  visitors’  gallery,  he  saw  the  osseous,  stoop- 
shouldered figure  of  Mr.  Cressler — who,  though  he 
never  speculated,  appeared  regularly  upon  the  Board 
every  morning — making  his  way  towards  one  of  the 
windows  in  the  front 'of  the  building.  His  pocket  was 
full  of  wheat,  taken  from  a bag  on  one  of  the  sample 
tables.  Opening  the  window,  he  scattered  the  grain 
upon  the  sill,  and  stood  for  a long  moment  absorbed 


96 


The  Pit 


and  interested  in  the  dazzling  flutter  of  the  wings  of 
innumerable  pigeons  who  came  to  settle  upon  the  ledge, 
pecking  the  grain  with  little,  nervous,  fastidious  taps  of 
their  yellow  beaks. 

Landry  cast  a glance  at  the  clock  beneath  the  dial 
on  the  wall  behind  him.  It  was  twenty-five  minutes  after 
nine.  He  stood  in  his  accustomed  place  on  the  north 
side  of  the  Wheat  Pit,  upon  the  topmost  stair.  The 
Pit  was  fully^Below  him  and  on  either  side  of  him 
were  the  brokers,  scalpers,  and  traders — Hirsch,  Sem- 
ple, Kelly,  Winston,  and  Rusbridge.  The  redoubtable 
Leaycraft,  who,  bidding  for  himself,  was  supposed  to 
hold  the  longest  line  of  May  wheat  of  any  one  man  in 
the  Pit,  the  insignificant  Grossmann,  a Jew  who  wore 
a flannel  shirt,  and  to  whose  outcries  no  one  ever 
paid  the  least  attention.  Fairchild,  Paterson,  and 
Goodlock,  the  inseparable  trio  who  represented  the 
Porteous  gang,  silent  men,  middle-aged,  who  had  but 
to  speak  in  order  to  buy  or  sell  a million  bushels  on 
the  spot.  And  others,  and  still  others,  veterans  of 
sixty-five,  recruits  just  out  of  their  teens,  men  who — 
some  of  them — in  the  past  had  for  a moment  domi- 
nated the  entire  Pit,  but  who  now  were  content  to  play 
the  part  of  “eighth-chasers,”  buying  and  selling  on 
the  same  da)’’,  content  with  a profit  of  ten  dollars. 
Others  who  might  at  that  very  moment  be  nursing 
plans  which  in  a week’s  time  would  make  them  mil- 
lionaires ; still  others  ’vVho,  under  a mask  of  nonchal- 
ance, strove  to  hide  the  chagrin  of  yesterday’s  defeat. 
And  they  were  there,  ready,  inordinately  alert,  ears 
turned  to  the  faintest  sound,  eyes  searching  for  the 
vaguest  trace  of  meaning  in  those  of  their  rivals,  nerv- 
ous, keyed  to  the  highest  tension,  ready  to  thrust  deep 
into  the  slightest  opening,  to  spring,  mercilessly,  upon 
the  smallest  undefended  spot.  Grossmann,  the  little 


97 


A Story  of  Chicago 

Jew  of  the  grimy  flannel  shirt,  perspired  in  the  stress 
of  the  suspense,  all  but  powerless  to  maintain  silence 
till  the  signal  should  be  given,  drawing  trembling  fin- 
gers across  his  mouth.  Winston,  brawny,  solid,  unper- 
turbed, his  hands  behind  his  back,  waited  immovably 
planted  on  his  feet  with  all  the  gravity  of  a statue,  his 
eyes  preternaturally  watchful,  keeping  Kelly — whom  he 
had  divined  had  some  “ funny  business  ” on  hand — ■ 
perpetually  in  sight.  The  Porteous  trio-^F^child, 
Paterson,  and  Goodlock — as  if  unalarmed,  unassailable", 
all  bur  turned  their  backs  to  the  Pit,  laughing  among 
themselves. 

The  official  reporter  climbed  to  his  perch  in  the  little 
cage  on  the  edge  of  the  Pit,  shutting  the  door  after 
him.  By  now  the  chanting  of  the  messenger  boys  was 
an  uninterrupted  chorus.  From  all  sides  of  the  build- 
ing, and  in  every  direction  they  crossed  and  recrossed 
each  other,  always  running,  their  hands  full  of  yellow 
envelopes.  From  the  telephone  alcoves  came  the  pro- 
longed, musical  rasp  of  the  call  bells.  In  the  Western 
Union  booths  the  keys  of  the  multitude  of  instruments 
raged  incessantly.  Bare-headed  young  men  hurried  up 
to  one  another,  conferred  an  instant  comparing  de- 
spatches, then  separated,  darting  away  at  top  speed. 
Men  called  to  each  other  half-way  across  the  building. 
Over  by  the  bulletin  boards  clerks  and  agents  made 
careful  memoranda  of  primary  receipts,  and  noted  down 
the  amount  of  wheat  on  passage,  the  exports  and  the 
imports. 

And  all  these  sounds,  the  chatter  of  the  telegraph, 
the  intoning  of  the  messenger  boys,  the  shouts  and 
cries  of  clerks  and  traders,  the  shuffle  and  trampling 
of  hundreds  of  feet,  the  whirring  of  telephone  signals 
rose  into  the  troubled  air,  and  mingled  overhead  to 
form  a vast  note,  prolonged,  sustained,  that  rever- 
7 


98 


The  Pit 


berated  from  vault  to  vault  of  the  airy  roof,  and  issued 
from  every  doorway,  every  opened  window  in  one  long 
roll  of  uninterrupted  thunder.  In  the  Wheat  Pit  the 
bids,  no  longer  obedient  of  restraint,  began  one  by  one 
to  burst  out,  like  the  first  isolated  shots  of  a skirmish 
line.  Grossmann  had  flung  out  an  arm  crying : 

“ ’Sell  twenty-five  May  at  ninety-five  and  an  eighth,” 
while  Kelly  and  Semple  had  almost  simultaneously 
shouted,  “ ’Give  seven-eighths  for  May  1 ” 

The  official  reporter  had  been  leaning  far  over  to 
catch  the  first  quotations,  one  eye  upon  the  clock  at  the 
end  of  the  room.  The  hour  and  minute  hands  were  at 
right  angles. 

Then  suddenly,  cutting  squarely  athwart  the  vague  | 
crescendo  of  the  floor  came  the  single  incisive  stroke  of  ' 
a great  gong.  Instantly  a tumult  was  unchained.  Arms 
were  flung  upward  in  strenuous  gestures,  and  from 
above  the  crowding  heads  In  the  Wheat  Pit  a multitude 
of  hands,  eager,  the  fingers  extended,  leaped  into  the 
air.  All  articulate  expression  was  lost  in  the  single 
explosion  of  sound  as  the  traders  surged  downwards 
to  the  centre  of  the  Pit,  grabbing  each  other,  struggling 
towards  each  other,  tramping,  stamping,  charging 
through  with  might  and  main.  Promptly  the  hand  on 
the  great  dial  above  the  clock  stirred  and  trembled,  and 
as  though  driven  by  the  tempest  breath  of  the  Pit  moved 
upward  through  the  degrees  of  its  circle.  It  paused, 
wavered,  stopped  at  length,  and  on  the  instant  the  hun- 
dreds of  telegraph  keys  scattered  throughout  the  build- 
ing began  clicking  off  the  news  to  the  whole  country, 
from  the  Atlantic  to  the  Pacific  and  from  Mackinac  to 
Mexico,  that  the  Chicago  market  had  made  a slight  ad- 
vance and  that  May  wheat,  which  had  closed  the  day 
before  at  ninety-three  and  three-eighths,  had  opened 
that  morning  at  ninety-four  and  a half. 


99 


A Story  of  Chicago 

But  the  advance  brought  out  no  profit-taking  sales. 
The  redoubtable  Leaycraft  and  the  Porteous  trio,  Fair- 
child,  Paterson,  and  Goodlock,  shook  their  heads  when 
the  Pit  offered  ninety-four  for  parts  of  their  holdings. 
The  price  held  firm.  Goodlock  even  began  to  offer 
ninety-four.  At  every  suspicion  of  a flurry  Grossmann, 
always  with  the  same  gesture  as  though  hurling  a jave- 
lin, always  with  the  same  lamentable  wail  of  distress, 
cried  out : 

“ ’Sell  twentynfive  May  at  ninety-five  and  a fourth.” 

He  held  his  five  fingers  spread  to  indicate  the  number 
of  “ contracts,”  or  lots  of  five  thousand  bushels,  which 
he  wished  to  sell,  each  finger  representing  one  “ con- 
tract.” 

And  it  was  at  this,  moment  that  selling  orders  began 
suddenly  to  pour  in  upon  the  Gretry-Converse  traders. 
Even  other  houses — Teller  and  West,  Burbank  & Co., 
Mattieson  and  Knight — received  their  share.  The 
movement  was  inexplicable,  puzzling.  With  a power- 
ful Bull  clique  dominating  the  trading  and  every  pros- 
pect of  a strong  market,  who  was  it  who  ventured  to  sell 
short  ? 

Landry  among  others  found  himself  commissioned 
to  sell.  His  orders  were  to  unload  three  hundred  thou- 
sand bushels  on  any  advance  over  and  above  ninety-four. 
He  kept  his  eye  on  Leaycraft,  certain  that  he  would  force 
up  the  figure.  But,  as  it  happened,  it  was  not  Leaycraft 
but  the  Porteous  trio  who  made  the  advance.  Standing 
in  the  centre  of  the  Pit,  Patterson  suddenly  flung  up 
his  hand  and  drew  it  towards  him,  clutching  the  air — 
the  conventional  gesture  of  the  buyer. 

“ ’Give  an  eighth  for  May.” 

Landry  was  at  him  in  a second.  Twenty  voices 
shouted  “ sold,”  and  as  many  traders  sprang  towards 
him  with  outstretched  arms.  Landry,  however,  was 


lOO 


The  Pit 


before  them,  and  his  rush  carried  Paterson  half  way 
across  the  middle  space  of  the  Pit. 

“ Sold,  sold.” 

Paterson  nodded,  and  as  Landry  noted  down  the 
transaction  the  hand  on  the  dial  advanced  again,  and 
^ain  held  firm. 

- But  after  this  the  activity  of  the  Pit  fell  away.  The 
trading  languished.  By  degrees  the  tension  of  the 
opening  was  relaxed.  Landry,  however,  had  refrained 
from  selling  more  than  ten  “ contracts  ” to  Paterson. 
He  had  a feeling  that  another  advance  would  come  later 
on.  Rapidly  he  made  his  plans.  He  would  sell  another 
fifty  thousand  bushels  if  the  price  went  to  ninety-four 
and  a half,  and  would  then  “ feel  ” the  market,  letting 
go  small  lots  here  and  there,  to  test  its  strength,  then, 
the  instant  he  felt  the  market  strong  enough,  throw  a 
full  hundred  thousand  upon  it  with  a rush  before  it  had 
time  to  break.  He  could  feel — almost  at  his  very'  finger 
tips — how  this  market  moved,  how  it  strengthened,  how  • 
it  weakened.  He  knew  just  when  to  nurse  it,  to  humor 
it,  to  let  it  settle,  and  when  to  crowd  it,  when  to  hustle 
it,  when  it  would  stand  rough  handling 

Grossmann  still  uttered  his  plaint  from  time  to  time, 
but  no  one  so  much  as  pretended  to  listen.  The  Por- 
teous  trio  and  Leaycraft  kept  the  price  steady  at  ninety- 
four  and  an  eighth,  but  showed  no  inclination  to  force 
it  higlier.  For  a full  five  minutes  not  a trade  was  re- 
corded. The  Pit  waited  for  the  Report  on  the  Visible 
Supply. 

And  it  w'as  during  this  lull  in  the  morning’s  business 
that  the  idiocy  of  the  English  ultimatum  to  the  Porte 
melted  aw'ay.  As  inexplicably  and  as  suddenly  as  the 
rumour  had  started,  it  now  disappeared.  Everyone, 
simultaneously,  seemed  to  ridicule  it.  England  declare 
war  on  Turkey!  Where  was  the  joke?  Who  was  the 


A Story  of  Chicago  lOi 

damn  fool  to  'have  started  that  old,  worn-out  war  scare  ? 
But,  for  all  that,  there  was  no  reaction  from  the  ad- 
vance. It  seemed  to  be  understood  that  either  Leay- 
craft  or  the  Porteous  crowd  stood  ready  to  support  the 
market;  and  in  place  of  the  ultimatum  story  a feeling 
began  to  gain  ground  that  the  expected  report  would 
indicate  a falling  off  in  the  “ visible,”  and  that  it  was 
quite  on  the  cards  that  the  market  might  even  advance 
another  point. 

As  the  interest  in  the  immediate  situation  declined, 
the  crowd  in  the  Pit  grew  less  dense.  Portions  of  it 
were  deserted;  even  Grossmann,  discouraged,  retired  to 
a bench  under  the  visitors’  gallery.  And  a spirit  of 
horse-play,  sheer  foolishness,  strangely  inconsistent 
with  the  hot-eyed  excitement  of  the  few  moments  after 
the  opening  invaded  the  remaining  groups.  Leaycraft, 
the  formidable,  as  well  as  Paterson  of  the  Porteous 
gang,  and  even  the  solemn  Winston,  found  an  appar- 
ently inexhaustible  diversion  in  folding  their  telegrams 
into  pointed  javelins  and  sending  them  sailing  across 
the  room,  watching  the  course  of  the  missiles  with  pro- 
found gravity.  A visitor  in  the  gallery — no  doubt  a 
Western  farmer  on  a holiday — having  put  his  feet  upon 
the  rail,  the  entire  Pit  began  to  groan  “ boots,  boots, 
boots.” 

A little  later  a certain  broker  came  scurrying  across 
the  floor  from  the  direction  of  the  telephone  room. 
Panting,  he  flung  himself  up  the  steps  of  the  Pit,  forced 
his  way  among  the  traders  with  vigorous  workings  of 
his  elbows,  and  shouted  a bid. 

“ He’s  sick,”  shouted  Hirsch.  “ Look  out,  he’s  sick. 
He’s  going  to  have  a fit.”  He  grabbed  the  broker  by 
both  arms  and  hustled  him  into  the  centre  of  the  Pit. 
The  others  caught  up  the  cry,  a score  of  hands  pushed 
the  newcomer  from  man  to  man.  The  Pit  traders 


102 


The  Pit 


clutched  him,  pulled  his  necktie  loose,  knocked  off  his 
hat,  vociferating  all  the  while  at  top  voice,  “ He’s  sick! 
He’s  sick!  ” 

Other  brokers  and  traders  came  up,  and  Grossmann, 
mistaking  the  commotion  for  a flurry,  ran  into  the  Pit, 
his  eyes  wide,  waving  his  arm  and  wailing  ; 

“ ’Sell  twenty-five  May  at  ninety-five  and  a quarter.” 

But  the  victim,  good-natured,  readjusted  his  battered 
hat,  and  again  repeated  his  bid. 

“ Ah,  go  to  bed,”  protested  Hirsch. 

“ He’s  the  man  who  struck  Billy  Paterson.” 

“ Say,  a horse  bit  him.  Look  out  for  him,  he’s  going 
to  have  a duck-fit.” 

The  incident  appeared  to  be  the  inspiration  for  a new 
“ josh  ” that  had  a great  success,  and  a group  of  traders 
organized  themselves  into  an  “ anti-cravat  committee,” 
and  made  the  rounds  of  the  Pit,  twitching  the  carefully 
tied  scarfs  of  the  unwary  out  of  place.  Grossman,  in- 
dignant at  “ t’ose  monkey-doodle  pizeness,”  withdrew 
from  the  centre  of  the  Pit.  But  while  he  stood  in  front 
of  Leaycraft,  his  back  turned,  muttering  his  disgust, 
the  latter,  while  carrying  on  a grave  conversation  wdth 
his  neighbour,  carefully  stuck  a file  of  paper  javelins 
all  around  the  Jew’s  hat  band,  and  then — still  without 
mirth  and  still  continuing  to  talk — set  them  on  fire. 

Landry  imagined  by  now  that  ninet3’'-four  and  an 
eighth  was  as  high  a figure  as  he  could  reasonably 
expect  that  morning,  and  so  began  to  ” work  off  ” his 
selling  orders.  Little  by  little  he  sold  the  wheat 
“ short,”  till  all  but  one  large  lot  was  gone. 

Then  all  at  once,  and  for  no  discoverable  immediate 
reason,  wheat,  amid  an  explosion  of  shouts  and  vocifera- 
tions, jumped  to  ninety-four  and  a quarter,  and  before 
the  Pit  could  take  breath,  had  advanced  another  eighth, 
broken  to  one-quarter,  then  jumped  to  the  five-eighths 
mark. 


A Story  of  Chicago 


103 


It  was  the  Report  on  the  Visible  Supply  beyond  ques- 
tion, and  though  it  had  not  yet  been  posted,  this  sudden 
flurry  was  a sign  that  it  was  not  only  near  at  hand,  but 
would  be  bullish. 

A few  moments  later  it  was  bulletined  in  the  gallery 
beneath  the  dial,  and  proved  a tremendous  surprise  to 
nearly  every  man  upon  the  floor.  No  one  had  imagined 
the  supply  was  so  ample,  so  all-sufficient  to  meet  the 
demand.  Promptly  the  Pit  responded.  Wheat  began 
to  pour  in  heavily.  Hirsch,  Kelly,  Grossmann,  Leay- 
craft,  the  stolid  Winston,  and  the  excitable  Rusbridge 
were  hard  at  it.  The  price  began  to  give.  Suddenly 
it  broke  sharply.  The  hand  on  the  great  dial  dropped 
to  ninety-three  and  seven-eighths.” 

Landry  was  beside-himself.  He  had  not  foreseen  this 
break.  There  was  no  reckoning  on  that  cursed  “ vis- 
ible,” and  he  still  had  50,000  bushels  to  dispose  of. 
There  was  no  telling  now  how  low  the  price  might  sink. 
He  must  act  quickly,  radically.  He  fought  his  way  to- 
wards the  Porteous  crowd,  reached  over  the  shoulder 
of  the  little  Jew  Grossmann,  who  stood  in  his  way,  and 
thrust  his  hand  almost  into  Paterson’s  face,  shouting  : 

“ ’Sell  fifty  May  at  seven-eighths.” 

It  was  the  last  one  of  his  unaccountable  selling  orders 
of  the  early  morning. 

The  other  shook  his  head. 

“ ’Sell  fifty  May  at  three-quarters.” 

Suddenly  some  instinct  warned  Landry  that  another 
break  was  coming.  It  was  in  the  very  air  around  him. 
He  could  almost  physically  feel  the  pressure  of  renewed 
avalanches  of  wheat  crowding  down  the  price.  Des- 
perate, he  grabbed  Paterson  by  the  shoulder. 

“ ’Sell  fifty  May  at  five-eighths.” 

*‘Take  it,”  vociferated  the  other,  as  though  answer- 
ing a challenge. 


104 


The  Pit 


And  in  the  heart  of  this  confusion,  in  this  downward 
rush  of  the  price,  Luck,  the  golden  goddess,  passed  with 
the  flirt  and  flash  of  glittering  wings,  and  hardly  before 
the  ticker  in  Gretry’s  office  had  signalled  the  decline,  the 
memorandum  of  the  trade  was  down  upon  Landry’s  card 
and  Curtis  Jadwin  stood  pledged  to  deliver,  before  noon 
on  the  last  day  of  May,  one  million  bushels  of  wheat 
into  the  hands  of  the  representatives  of  the  great  Bulls 
of  the  Board  of  Trade. 

But  by  now  the  real  business  of  the  morning  was  over. 
The  Pit  knew  it.  Grossmann,  obstinate,  hypnotized  as  it 
were  by  one  idea,  still  stood  in  his  accustomed  place  on 
the  upper  edge  of  the  Pit,  and  from  time  to  time,  with 
the  same  despairing  gesture,  emitted  his  doleful  outcry 
of  “ ’Sell  twenty-five  May  at  ninety-five  and  three- 
quarters.” 

Nobody  listened.  The  traders  stood  around  in  ex- 
pectant attitudes,  looking  into  one  another’s  faces,  wait- 
ing for  what  they  could  not  exactly  say;  loath  to  leave 
the  Pit  lest  something  should  “ turn  up  ” the  moment 
their  backs  were  turned. 

By  degrees  the  clamour  died  away,  ceased,  began 
again  irregularly,  then  abruptly  stilled.  Here  and 
there  a bid  was  called,  an  offer  made,  like  the  intermit- 
tent crack  of  small  arms  after  the  stopping  of  the  can- 
nonade. 

“ ’Sell  five  May  at  one-eighth.” 

“ ’Sell  twenty  at  one-quarter.” 

**  ’Give  one-eighth  for  May.” 

For  an  instant  the  shoutings  were  renewed.  Then 
suddenly  the  gong  struck.  The  traders  began  slowly 
to  leave  the  Pit.  One  of  the  floor  officers,  an  old  fel- 
low in  uniform  and  vizored  cap,  appeared,  gently  shoul- 
dering towards  the  door  the  groups  wherein  the  bidding 
and  offering  were  still  languidly  going  on.  His  voice 
full  of  remonstration,  he  repeated  continually: 


A Story  of  Chicago  1 05 

“ Time’s  up,  gentlemen.  Go  on  now  and  get  your 
lunch.  Lunch  time  now.  Go  on  now,  or  I’ll  have  to 
report  you.  Time’s  up.” 

The  tide  set  toward  the  doorways.  In  the  gallery  the 
, few  visitors  rose,  putting  on  coats  and  wraps.  Over 
i by  the  check  counter,  to  the  right  of  the  south  entrance 
; to  the  floor,  a throng  of  brokers  and  traders  jostled  each 
other,  reaching  over  one  another’s  shoulders  for  hats 
and  ulsters.  In  steadily  increasing  numbers  they  poured 
out  of  the  north  and  south  entrances,  on  their  way  to 
I turn  in  their  trading  cards  to  the  offices. 

Little  by  little  the  floor  emptied.  The  provision  and 
j grain  pits  were  deserted,  and  as  the  clamour  of  the 
place  lapsed  away  the  telegraph  instruments  began  to 
make  themselves  heard  once  more,  together  with  the 
chanting  of  the  messenger  boys. 

Swept  clean  in  the  morning,  the  floor  itself,  seen  now 
through  the  thinning  groups,  was  littered  from  end  to 
, end  with  scattered  grain — oats,  wheat,  corn,  and  barley, 
_ with  wisps  of  hay,  peanut  shells,  apple  parings,  and 
I orange  peel,  with  torn  newspapers,  odds  and  ends  of 
memoranda,  crushed  paper  darts,  and  above  all  with 
a countless  multitude  of  yellow  telegraph  forms,  thou- 
sands upon  thousands,  crumpled  and  muddied  under  the 
trampling  of  innumerable  feet.  It  was  the  debris  of  the 
battle-field,  the  abandoned  impedimenta  and  broken 
weapons  of  contending  armies,  the  detritus  of  conflict, 
torn,  broken,  and  rent,  that  at  the  end  of  each  day’s 
; combat  encumbered  the  field. 

At  last  even  the  click  of  the  last  of  telegraph  keys 
died  down.  Shouldering  themselves  into  their  over- 
j coats,  the  operators  departed,  calling  back  and  forth 
I to  one  another,  making  “ dates,”  and  cracking  jokes. 
■ Washerwomen  appeared  with  steaming  pails,  porters 
1 pushing  great  brooms  before  them  began  gathering  the 
(refuse  of  the  floor  into  heaps. 


io6 


The  Pit 


Between  the  wheat  and  corn  pits  a band  of  young 
fellows,  some  of  them  absolute  boys,  appeared.  These 
were  the  settlement  clerks.  They  carried  long  account 
books.  It  was  their  duty  to  get  the  trades  of  the  day 
into  a “ ring  ” — to  trace  the  course  of  a lot  of  wheat 
which  had  changed  hands  perhaps  a score  of  times  dur- 
ing the  trading — and  their  calls  of  “ Wheat  sold  to  Teller 
and  West,”  “ May  wheat  sold  to  Burbank  & Co.,”  “ May 
oats  sold  to  Matthewson  and  Knight,”  “ Wheat  sold  to 
Gretry,  Converse  & Co.,”  began  to  echo  from  wall  to 
wall  of  the  almost  deserted  room. 

A cat,  grey  and  striped,  and  wearing  a dog  collar  of 
nickel  and  red  leather,  issued  from  the  coat-room  and 
picked  her  way  across  the  floor.  Evidently  she  was  in 
a mood  of  the  most  ingratiating  friendliness,  and  as  one 
after  another  of  the  departing  traders  spoke  to  her, 
raised  her  tail  in  the  air  and  arched  her  back  against 
the  legs  of  the  empty  chairs.  The  janitor  put  in  an 
appearance,  lowering  the  tall  colored  windows  with  a 
long  rod.  A noise  of  hammering  and  the  scrape  of  saws 
began  to  issue  from  a corner  where  a couple  of  carpen- 
ters tinkered  about  one  of  the  sample  tables. 

Then  at  last  even  the  settlement  clerks  took  them- 
selves off.  At  once  there  was  a great  silence,  broken 
only  by  the  harsh  rasp  of  the  carpenters’  saws  and  the 
voice  of  the  janitor  exchanging  jokes  with  the  washer- 
women. The  sound  of  footsteps  in  distant  quarters 
re-echoed  as  if  in  a church. 

The  washerwomen  invaded  the  floor,  spreading  soapy  1 
and  steaming  water  before  them.  Over  by  the  sample  I 
tables  a negro  porter  in  shirt-sleeves  swept  entire  bush-  | 
els  of  spilled  wheat,  crushed,  broken,  and  sodden,  into  | 
his  dust  pans.  ) 

^The  day’s  campaign  was  over.  It  was  past  two  I 
* o’clock.  On  the  great  dial  against  the  eastern  wall  the 


A Story  of  Chicago  107 

indicator  stood — sentinel  fashion — at  ninety-three.  Not 
till  the  following  morning  would  the  whirlpool,  the  great 
central  force  that  spun  the  Niagara  of  wheat  in  its  grip, 
thunder  and  bellow  again. 

Later  on  even  the  washerwomen,  even  the  porter  and 
janitor,  departed.  An  unbroken  silence,  the  peaceful- 
ness of  an  untroubled  calm,  settled  over  the  place.  The 
rays  of  the  afternoon  sun  flooded  through  the  west  win- 
dows in  long  parallel  shafts  full  of  floating  golden  motes. 
There  was  no  sound;  nothing  stirred.  The  floor  of  the 
Board  of  Trade  was  deserted.  Alone,  on  the  edge  of 
the  abandoned  Wheat  Pit,  in  a spot  where  the  sunlight 
fell  warmest — an  atom  of  life,  lost  in  the  immensity  of 
the  empty  floor — the  grey  cat  made  her  toilet,  diligently 
licking  the  fur  on  the.  inside  of  her  thigh,  one  leg,  as  if 
dislocated,  thrust  into  the  air  above  her  head. 


IV 


In  the  front  parlor  of  the  Cresslers’  house  a little 
company  was  gathered — Laura  Dearborn  and  Page, 
Mrs.  Wessels,  Mrs.  Cressler,  and  young  Miss  Gretry, 
an  awkward,  plain-faced  girl  of  about  nineteen,  dressed 
extravagantly  in  a decollete  gown  of  blue  silk.  Curtis 
Jadwin  and  Cressler  himself  stood  by  the  open  fireplace 
smoking.  Landry  Court  fidgeted  on  the  sofa,  pretend- 
ing to  listen  to  the  Gretry  girl,  who  told  an  interminable 
story  of  a visit  to  some  wealthy  relative  who  had  a 
country  seat  in  Wisconsin  and  who  raised  fancy  poultry. 
She  possessed,  it  appeared,  three  thousand  hens, 
Brahma,  Faverolles,  Houdans,  Dorkings,  even  peacocks 
and  tame  quails. 

Sheldon  Corthell,  in  a dinner  coat,  an  unlighted  cigar- 
ette between  his  fingers,  discussed  the  spring  exhibit  of 
water-colors  with  Laura  and  Mrs.  Cressler,  Page  listen- 
ing with  languid  interest.  Aunt  Wess’  turned  the  leaves 
of  a family  album,  counting  the  number  of  photographs 
of  Mrs.  Cressler  which  it  contained. 

Black  coffee  had  just  been  served.  It  was  the  occa-  j 
sion  of  the  third  rehearsal  for  the  play  which  was  to  be  j 
given  for  the  benefit  of  the  hospital  ward  for  Jadwin’s  , 
mission  children,  and  Mrs.  Cressler  had  invited  the  j 
members  of  the  company  for  dinner.  Just  now  every- 
one awaited  the  arrival  of  the  “ coach,”  Monsieur  Ger- 
ardy,  who  was  always  late. 

“ To  my  notion,”  observed  Corthell,  “ the  water-color 
that  pretends  to  be  anything  more  than  a sketch  over- 
steps its  intended  limits.  The  elaborated  water-color,  I 
contend,  must  be  judged  by  the  same  standards  as  an  I 


A Story  of  Chicago  109 

oil  painting.  And  if  that  is  so,  why  not  have  the  oil 
painting  at  once?” 

“ And  with  all  that,  if  you  please,  not  an  egg  on  the 
place  for  breakfast,”  declared  the  Gretry  girl  in  her  thin 
voice.  She  was  constrained,  embarrassed.  Of  all  those 
present  she  was  the  only  one  to  mistake  the  character 
of  the  gathering  and  appear  in  formal  costume.  But 
one  forgave  Isabel  Gretry  such  lapses  as  these.  Invari- 
ably she  did  the  wrong  thing;  invariably  she  was  out  of 
place  in  the  matter  of  inadvertent  speech,  an  awkward 
accident,  the  wrong  toilet.  For  all  her  nineteen  years, 
she  yet  remained  the  hoyden,  young,  undeveloped,  and 
clumsy. 

“ Never  an  egg,  and  three  thousand  hens  in  the  runs,” 
she  continued.  “ Think  of  that!  The  Plymouth  Rocks 
had  the  pip.  And  the  others,  my  lands ! I don’t  know. 
They  just  didn’t  lay.” 

“ Ought  to  tickle  the  soles  of  their  feet,”  declared 
Landry  with  profound  gravity. 

“ Tickle  their  feet!  ” 

“ Best  thing  in  the  world  for  hens  that  don’t  lay.  It 
sort  of  stirs  them  up.  Oh,  every  one  knows  that.” 

“ Fancy  now!  I’ll  write  to  Aunt  Alice  to-morrow.” 

Cressler  clipped  the  tip  of  a fresh  cigar,  and,  turning 
to  Curtis  jadwin,  remarked  : 

“ I understand  that  Leaycraft  alone  lost  nearly  fifteen 
thousand.” 

He  referred  to  Jadwin’s  deal  in  May  wheat,  the  con- 
summation of  which  had  been  effected  the  previous 
week.  Squarely  in  the  midst  of  the  morning  session, 
on  the  day  following  the  “ short  ” sale  of  Jadwin’s  mil- 
lion of  bushels,  had  exploded  the  news  of  the  intended 
action  of  the  French  chamber.  Amid  a tremendous 
clamour  the  price  fell.  The  Bulls  were  panicstricken. 
Leaycraft  the  redoubtable  was  overwhelmed  at  the  very 


no 


The  Pit 


start.  The  Porteous  trio  heroically  attempted  to  shoul- 
der the  wheat,  but  the  load  was  too  much.  They  as 
well  gave  ground,  and,  bereft  of  their  support.  May 
wiheat,  which  had  opened  at  ninety-three  and  five- 
eighths  to  ninety-two  and  a half,  broke  with  the  very 
first  attack  to  ninety-two,  hung  there  a moment,  then 
dropped  again  to  ninety-one  and  a half,  then  to  ninety- 
one.  Then,  in  a prolonged  shudder  of  weakness,  sank 
steadily  down  by  quarters  to  ninety,  to  eighty-nine, 
and  at  last — a final  collapse — touched  eighty-eight 
cents.  At  that  figure  Jadwin  began  to  cover.  There 
was  danger  that  the  buying  of  so  large  a lot  might 
bring  about  a rally  in  the  price.  But  Gretry,  a consum- 
mate master  of  Pit  tactics,  kept  his  orders  scattered  and 
bought  gradually,  taking  some  two  or  three  days  to 
accumulate  the  grain.  Jadwin’s  luck — the  never-failing 
guardian  of  the  golden  wings — seemed  to  have  the  affair 
under  immediate  supervision,  and  reports  of  timely  rains 
in  the  wheat  belt  kept  the  price  inert  while  the  trade 
was  being  closed.  In  the  end  the  “ deal  ” was  brilliantly 
successful,  and  Gretry  was  still  chuckling  over  the  set- 
back to  the  Porteous  gang.  Exactly  the  amount  of  his 
friend’s  profits  Jadwin  did  not  know.  As  for  himself, 
he  had  received  from  Gretry  a check  for  fifty  thousand 
dollars,  every  cent  of  which  was  net  profit. 

“ Pm  not  going  to  congratulate  you,”  continued 
Cressler.  “As  far  as  that’s  concerned,  I would  rather 
you  had  lost  than  won — if  it  would  have  kept  you  out 
of  the  Pit  for  good.  You’re  cocky  now.  I know — good 
Lord,  don’t  I know.  I had  my  share  of  it.  I know 
how  a man  gets  drawn  into  this  speculating  game ” 

“ Charlie,  this  wasn’t  speculating,”  interrupted  Jad- 
win. “ It  was  a certainty.  It  was  found  money.  If  I 
had  known  a certain  piece  of  real  estate  was  going  to 
appreciate  in  value  I would  have  bought  it,  wouldn’t  I?  ” 


Ill 


A Story  of  Chicago 

“ All  the  worse,  if  it  made  it  seem  easy  and  sure  to 
you.  Do  you  know,”  he  added  suddenly.  “ Do  you 
know  that  Leaycraft  has  gone  to  keep  books  for  a manu- 
facturing concern  out  in  Dubuque?  ” 

Jadwin  pulled  his  mustache.  He  was  looking  at  Laura 
Dearborn  over  the  heads  of  Landry  and  the  Gretry  girl. 

“ I didn’t  suppose  he’d  be  getting  measured  for  a 
private  yacht,”  he  murmured.  Then  he  continued,  pull- 
ing his  mustache  vigorously  : 

“ Charlie,  upon  my  word,  what  a beautiful — what 
beautiful  hair  that  girl  has ! ” 

Laura  was  wearing  it  very  high  that  evening,  the  shin- 
ing black  coils  transfixed  by  a strange  hand-cut  ivory 
comb  that  had  been  her  grandmother’s.  She  was  dressed 
in  black  taffeta,  with  a single  great  cabbage-rose  pinned 
to  her  shoulder.  She  sat  very  straight  in  her  chair,  one 
hand  upon  her  slender  hip,  her  head  a little  to  one  side, 
listening  attentively  to  Corthell. 

By  this  time  the  household  of  the  former  rectory  was 
running  smoothly;  everything  was  in  place,  the  Dear- 
borns were  “ settled,”  and  a routine  had  begun.  Her 
first  month  in  her  new  surroundings  had  been  to  Laura 
an  unbroken  series  of  little  delights.  For  formal  social 
distractions  she  had  but  little  taste.  She  left  those  to 
Page,  who,  as  soon  as  Lent  was  over,  promptly  became 
involved  in  a bewildering  round  of  teas,  “ dancing 
clubs,”  dinners,  and  theatre  parties.  Mrs.  Wessels  was 
her  chaperone,  and  the  little  middle-aged  lady  found  the 
satisfaction  of  a belated  youth  in  conveying  her  pretty 
niece  to  the  various  functions  that  occupied  her  time. 
Each  Friday  night  saw  her  in  the  gallery  of  a certain 
smart  dancing  school  of  the  south  side,  where  she 
watched  Page  dance  her  way  from  the  “ first  waltz  ” to 
the  last  figure  of  the  german.  She  counted  the  couples 
carefully,  and  on  the  way  home  was  always  able  to  say 


II2 


The  Pit 


how  the  attendance  of  that  particular  evening  compared 
with  that  of  the  former  occasion,  and  also  to  inform 
Laura  how  many  times  Page  had  danced  with  the  same 
young  man. 

Laura  herself  was  more  serious.  She  had  begun  a 
course  of  reading;  no  novels,  but  solemn  works  full  of 
allusions  to  “ Man  ” and  “ Destiny,”  which  she  under- 
lined and  annotated.  Twice  a week — on  IMondays  and 
Thursdays — she  took  a French  lesson.  Corthell  man- 
aged to  enlist  the  good  services  of  Mrs.  Wessels  and 
escorted  her  to  numerous  piano  and  ’cello  recitals,  to 
lectures,  to  concerts.  He  even  succeeded  in  achieving 
the  consecration  of  a specified  afternoon  once  a week, 
spent  in  his  studio  in  the  Fine  Arts’  Building  on  the 
Lake  Front,  where  he  read  to  them  “ Saint  Agnes  Eve,” 
“ Sordello,”  “ The  Light  of  Asia  ” — poems  which,  with 
their  inversions,  obscurities,  and  astonishing  arabesques 
of  rhetoric,  left  Aunt  Wess’  bewildered,  breathless,  all 
but  stupefied. 

Laura  found  these  readings  charming.  The  studio 
was  beautiful,  lofty,  the  light  dim;  the  sound  of  Cor- 
thell’s  voice  returned  from  the  thick  hangings  of  velvet 
and  tapestry  in  a subdued  murmur.  The  air  was  full  of 
the  odor  of  pastilles. 

Laura  could  not  fail  to  be  impressed  with  the  ar- 
tist’s tact,  his  delicacy.  In  words  he  never  referred 
to  their  conversation  in  the  foyer  of  the  Auditorium; 
only  by  some  unexplained  subtlety  of  attitude  he  man- 
aged to  convey  to  her  the  distinct  impression  that  he 
loved  her  always.  That  he  was  patient,  waiting  for  some 
indefinite,  unexpressed  development. 

Landry  Court  called  upon  her  as  often  as  she  would 
allow.  Once  he  had  prevailed  upon  her  and  Page  to 
accompany  him  to  the  matinee  to  see  a comic  opera. 
He  had  pronounced  it  “ bully,”  unable  to  see  that  Laura 


A Story  of  Chicago  1 13 

evinced  only  a mild  interest  in  the  performance.  On 
each  propitious  occasion  he  had  made  love  to  her  ex- 
travagantly. He  continually  protested  his  profound 
respect  with  a volubility  and  earnestness  that  was  quite 
uncalled  for. 

But,  meanwhile,  the  situation  had  speedily  become 
more  complicated  by  the  entrance  upon  the  scene  of  an 
unexpected  personage.  This  was  Curtis  Jadwin.  It 
was  impossible  to  deny  the  fact  that  “ J.”  was  in  love 
with  Mrs.  Cressler’s  protegee.  The  business  man  had 
none  of  Corthell’s  talent  for  significant  reticence,  none 
of  his  tact,  and  older  than  she,  a man-of-the-world,  ac- 
customed to  deal  with  situations  with  unswerving  direct- 
ness, he,  unlike  Landry  Court,  was  not  in  the  least  afraid 
of  her.  From  the  very  first  she  found  herself  upon  the 
defensive.  Jadwin  was  aggressive,  assertive,  and  his 
addresses  had  all  the  persistence  and  vehemence  of  ver- 
itable attack.  Landry  she  could  manage  with  the  lift- 
ing of  a finger,  Corthell  disturbed  her  only  upon  those 
rare  occasions  when  he  made  love  to  her.  But  Jadwin 
gave  her  no  time  to  so  much  as  think  of  finesse.  She 
was  not  even  allowed  to  choose  her  own  time  and  place 
for  fencing,  and  to  parry  his  invasion  upon  those  inti- 
mate personal  grounds  which  she  pleased  herself  to  keep 
secluded  called  upon  her  every  feminine  art  of  procras- 
tination and  strategy. 

He  contrived  to  meet  her  everywhere.  He  impressed 
Mrs.  Cressler  as  auxiliary  into  his  cafnpaign,  and  a series 
of  rencontres  followed  one  another  with  astonishing 
rapidity.  Now  it  was  another  opera  party,  now  a box 
at  McVicker’s,  now  a dinner,  or  more  often  a drive 
through  Lincoln  Park  behind  Jadwin’s  trotters.  He 
even  had  the  Cresslers  and  Laura  over  to  his  mission 
Sunday-school  for  the  Easter  festival,  an  occasion  of 
which  Laura  carried  away  a confused  recollection  of 


8 


114 


The  Pit 


enormous  canvas  mottoes,  that  looked  more  like  cam- 
paign banners  than  texts  from  the  Scriptures,  sheaves  of 
calla  lilies,  imitation  bells  of  tin-foil,  revival  hymns  vo- 
ciferated with  deafening  vehemence  from  seven  hundred 
distended  mouths,  and  through  it  all  the  disagreeable 
smell  of  poverty,  the  odor  of  uncleanliness  that  mingled 
strangely  with  the  perfume  of  the  lilies  and  the  aromatic 
whiffs  from  the  festoons  of  evergreen. 

Thus  the  first  month  of  her  new  life  had  passed. 
Laura  did  not  trouble  herself  to  look  very  far  into  the 
future.  She  was  too  much  amused  with  her  emancipa- 
tion from  the  narrow  horizon  of  her  New  England  en- 
vironment. She  did  not  concern  herself  about  conse- 
quences. Things  would  go  on  for  themselves,  and  con- 
sequences develop  without  effort  on  her  part.  She 
never  asked  herself  whether  or  not  she  was  in  love  with  j 
any  of  the  three  men  who  strove  for  her  favor.  She  was 
quite  sure  she  was  not  ready — yet — to  be  married.  There 
was  even  something  distasteful  in  the  idea  of  marriage. 

She  liked  Landry  Court  immensely;  she  found  the  after- 
noons in  Corthell’s  studio  delightful;  she  loved  the  rides 
in  the  park  behind  Jadwin’s  horses.  She  had  no  desire 
that  any  one  of  these  affairs  should  exclude  the  other 
two.  She  wished  nothing  to  be  consummated.  As  for 
love,  she  never  let  slip  an  occasion  to  shock  Aunt  Wess’ 
by  declaring: 

“ I love — nobody.  I shall  never  marry.” 

Page,  prim,  with  great  parades  of  her  ideas  of  “ good 
form,”  declared  between  her  pursed  lips  that  her  sister 
was  a flirt.  But  this  was  not  so.  Laura  never  man- 
oeuvered  with  her  lovers,  nor  intrigued  to  keep  from  any 
one  of  them  knowledge  of  her  companionship  with  the 
other  two.  So  upon  such  occasions  as  this,  when  all 
three  found  themselves  face  to  face,  she  remained  un- 
perturbed. 


115 


A Story  of  Chicago 

At  last,  towards  half-past  eight,  Monsieur  Gerardy 
arrived.  All  through  the  winter  amateur  plays  had 
been  in  great  favor,  and  Gerardy  had  become,  in  a sense, 
a fad.  He  was  in  great  demand.  Consequently,  he 
I gave  himself  airs.  His  method  was  that  of  severity;  he 
I posed  as  a task-master,  relentless,  never  pleased,  hust- 
ling the  amateur  actors  about  without  ceremony,  scold- 
ing and  brow-beating.  He  was  a small,  excitable  man 
who  wore  a frock-coat  much  too  small  for  him,  a flowing 
purple  cravatte  drawn  through  a finger  ring,  and  enor- 
mous cuffs  set  off  with  huge  buttons  of  Mexican  onyx. 
In  his  lapel  was  an  inevitable  carnation,  dried,  shrunken, 
and  lamentable.  He  was  redolent  of  perfume  and  spoke 
of  himself  as  an  artist.  He  caused  it  to  be  understood 
that  in  the  intervals  of  “ coaching  society  plays  ” he  gave 
his  attention  to  the  painting  of  landscapes.  Corthell 
feigned  to  ignore  his  very  existence. 

The  play-book  in  his  hand.  Monsieur  Gerardy  clicked 
his  heels  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  and  punctiliously 
saluted  everyone  present,  bowing  only  from  his  shoul- 
ders, his  head  dropping  forward  as  if  propelled  by  suc- 
cessive dislocations  of  the  vertebrae  of  his  neck. 

He  explained  the  cause  of  his  delay.  His  English  was 
without  accent,  but  at  times  suddenly  entangled  itself  in 
curious  Gallic  constructions. 

“ Then  I propose  we  begin  at  once,”  he  announced. 
“ The  second  act  to-night,  then,  if  we  have  time,  the 
third  act — from  the  book.  And  I expect  the  second  act 
to  be  letter-perfect — let-ter-per-fect.  There  is  nothing 
there  but  that.”  He  held  up  his  hand,  as  if  to  refuse  to 
consider  the  least  dissention.  “ There  is  nothing  but 
that — no  other  thing.” 

All  but  Corthell  listened  attentively.  The  artist,  how- 
ever, turning  his  back,  had  continued  to  talk  to  Laura 
without  lowering  his  tone,  and  all  through  Monsieur 


The  Pit 


1 16 

Gerardy’s  exhortation  his  voice  had  made  itself  heard. 
“ Management  of  light  and  shade  ” . . . “ color 
scheme  ” . . . “ effects  of  composition.” 

Monsieur  Gerardy’s  eye  glinted  in  his  direction.  He 
struck  his  play-book  sharply  into  the  palm  of  his  hand. 

“Come,  come!”  he  cried.  “No  more  nonsense. 
Now  we  leave  the  girls  alone  and  get  to  work.  Here 
is  the  scene.  Mademoiselle  Gretry,  if  I derange  you ! ” 
He  cleared  a space  at  the  end  of  the  parlor,  pulling  the 
chairs  about.  “ Be  attentive  now.  Here  ” — he  placed 
a chair  at  his  right  with  a flourish,  as  though  planting  a 
banner — “ is  the  porch  of  Lord  Glendale’s  country 
house.” 

“ Ah,”  murmured  Landry,  winking  solemnly  at  Page, 
“ the  chair  is  the  porch  of  the  house.” 

“ And  here,”  shouted  Monsieur  Gerardy,  glaring  at 
him  and  slamming  down  another  chair,  “ is  a rustic 
bench  and  practicable  table  set  for  breakfast.” 

Page  began  to  giggle  behind  her  play-book.  Ger- 
ardy, his  nostrils  expanded,  gave  her  his  back.  The 
older  people,  who  were  not  to  take  part — Jadwin,  the 
Cresslers,  and  Aunt  Wess’ — retired  to  a far  corner,  Mrs. 
Cressler  declaring  that  they  would  constitute  the  audi- 
ence. 

“ On  stage,”  vociferated  Monsieur  Gerardy,  perspir- 
ing from  his  exertions  with  the  furniture.  “ ‘ hlarion  en- 
ters, timid  and  hesitating,  L.  C.’  Come,  who’s  IMarion? 
Mademoiselle  Gretry,  if  you  please,  and  for  the  love  of 
God  remember  your  crossings.  Sh!  sh!  ” he  cried,  wav- 
ing his  arms  at  the  others.  “ A little  silence  if  you 
please.  Now,  Marion.” 

Isabel  Gretry,  holding  her  play-book  at  her  side,  one 
finger  marking  the  place,  essayed  an  entrance  with  the 
words: 

“ ‘ Ah,  the  old  home  once  more.  See  the  clambering 
roses  have * " 


17 


A Story  of  Chicag< 


But  Monsieur  Gerardy,  suddenly  compressing  his  lips 
as  if  in  a heroic  effort  to  repress  his  emotion,  flung  him- 
self into  a chair,  turning  his  back  and  crossing  his  legs 
violently.  Miss  Gretry  stopped,  very  much  disturbed, 
gazing  perplexedly  at  the  coach’s  heaving  shoulders. 

There  was  a strained  silence,  then: 

“ Isn’t — isn’t  that  right?  ” 

As  if  with  the  words  she  had  touched  a spring.  Mon- 
sieur Gerardy  bounded  to  his  feet. 

"Grand  God!  Is  that  left-centre  where  you  have 
made  the  entrance?  In  fine,  I ask  you  a little — is  that 
left-centre?  You  have  come  in  by  the  rustic  bench  and 
practicable  table  set  for  breakfast.  A fine  sight  on  the 
night  of  the  performance  that.  Marion  climbs  over  the 
rustic  breakfast  and  practicable — over  the  rustic  bench 
and  practicable  table,  ha,  ha,  to  make  the  entrance.” 
Still  holding  the  play-book,  he  clapped  hands  with 
elaborate  sarcasm.  “ Ah,  yes,  good  business  that. 
That  will  bring  down  the  house.” 

Meanwhile  the  Gretry  girl  turned  again  from  left- 
centre. 

“ ‘ Ah,  the  old  home  again.  See ’ ” 

“Stop!”  thundered  Monsieur  Gerardy.  "Is  that 
what  you  call  timid  and  hesitating?  Once  more,  those 
lines.  . . . No,  no.  It  is  not  it  at  all.  More  of 
slowness,  more  of — Here,  watch  me.” 

He  made  the  entrance  with  laborious  exaggeration  of 
effect,  dragging  one  foot  after  another,  clutching  at  the 
palings  of  an  imaginary  fence,  while  pitching  his  voice 
at  a feeble  falsetto,  he  quavered  : 

“ ‘ Ah ! The  old  home — ah  , . . once  more. 

See — ’ like  that,”  he  cried,  straightening  up.  “ Now 
then.  We  try  that  entrance  again.  Don’t  come  on  too 
quick  after  the  curtain.  Attention.  I clap  my  hands 
for  the  curtain,  and  count  three.”  He  backed  away  and, 


The  Pit 


Ii8 

tucking  the  play-book  under  his  arm,  struck  his  palms 
together.  “ Now,  one — two — three.” 

But  this  time  Isabel  Gretry,  in  remembering  her 
“ business,”  confused  her  stage  directions  once  more. 

“ ‘ Ah,  the  old  home ’ ” 

“ Left-centre,”  interrupted  the  coach,  in  a tone  of 
long-suf¥ering  patience. 

She  paused  bewildered,  and  believing  that  she  had 
spoken  her  lines  too  abruptly,  began  again: 

“ ‘ See,  the  clambering ’ ” 

“ Left-ctnivt.” 

“ ‘ Ah,  the  old  home ’ ” 

Monsieur  Gerardy  settled  himself  deliberately  in  his 
chair  and  resting  his  head  upon  one  hand  closed  his 
eyes.  His  manner  was  that  of  Galileo  under  torture 
declaring  “ still  it  moves.” 

“ Lr/t-centre.” 

“ Oh — oh,  yes.  I forgot.” 

Monsieur  Gerardy  apostrophized  the  chandelier  with 
mirthless  humour. 

“ Oh,  ha,  ha!  She  forgot.” 

Still  another  time  Marion  tried  the  entrance,  and,  as 
she  came  on.  Monsieur  Gerardy  made  vigorous  signals 
to  Page,  exclaiming  in  a hoarse  whisper  : 

“ Lady  Mary,  ready.  In  a minute  you  come  on.  Re- 
member the  cue.” 

Meanwhile  Marion  had  continued  : 

“ ‘ See  the  clambering  vines ’ ” 

” Roses.” 

“ ‘ The  clambering  rose  vines ’ ” 

“ Roses,  pure  and  simple.” 

“ ‘ See ! The  clambering  roses,  pure  and ’ ” 

“ Mademoiselle  Gretry,  will  you  do  me  the  extreme 
obligation  to  bound  yourself  by  the  lines  of  the  book?  ” 

“ I thought  you  said ” 


A Story  of  Chicago  1 1 9 

“ Go  on,  go  on,  go  on!  Is  it  God-possible  to  be  thus 
stupid?  Lady  Mary,  ready.” 

“ ‘ See,  the  clambering  roses  have  wrapped  the  old 
stones  in  a loving  embrace.  The  birds  build  in  the  same 
old  nests ’ ” 

“ Well,  well.  Lady  Mary,  where  are  you?  You  enter 
from  the  porch.” 

“ I’m  waiting  for  my  cue,”  protested  Page.  “My  cue 
is ; ‘ Are  there  none  that  will  remember  me.’  ” 

“ Say,”  whispered  Landry,  coming  up  behind  Page, 
“ it  would  look  bully  if  you  could  come  out  leading  a 
greyhound.” 

“ Ah,  so.  Mademoiselle  Gretry,”  cried  Monsieur  Ger- 
ardy,  “ you  left  out  the  cue.”  He  became  painfully 
polite.  “ Give  the  speech  once  more,  if  you  please.” 

“ A dog  would  look  bully  on  the  stage,”  whispered 
Landry.  “ And  I know  where  I could  get  one.” 

“ Where?” 

“ A friend  of  mine.  He’s  got  a beauty,  blue  grey ” 

They  become  suddenly  aware  of  a portentous  silence. 
The  coach,  his  arms  folded,  was  gazing  at  Page  with 
tightened  lips. 

“‘None  w'ho  will  remember  me,’”  he  burst  out  at 
last.  “ Three  times  she  gave  it.” 

Page  hurried  upon  the  scene  with  the  words: 

“ ‘ Ah,  another  glorious  morning.  The  vines  are 
drenched  in  dew.’  ” Then,  raising  her  voice  and  turn- 
ing toward  the  “ house,”  “ ‘ Arthur.’  ” 

“ ‘ Arthur,’  ” warned  the  coach.  “ That’s  you,  Mr. 
Corthell.  Ready.  Well  then.  Mademoiselle  Gretry, 
you  have  something  to  say  there.” 

“ I can’t  say  it,”  murmured  the  Gretry  girl,  her  hand- 
kerchief to  her  face. 

“ What  now?  Continue.  Your  lines  are  ‘ I must  not 
be  seen  here.  It  would  betray  all,’  then  conceal  your- 


1 20  The  Pit 

self  in  the  arbor.  Continue.  Speak  the  line.  It  is  the 
cue  of  Arthur.” 

” I can’t,”  mumbled  the  girl  behind  her  handkerchief. 

“Can’t?  Why,  then?” 

“ I — I have  the  nose-bleed.” 

Upon  the  instant  Monsieur  Gerardy  quite  lost  his 
temper.  He  turned  away,  one  hand  to  his  head,  rolling 
his  eyes  as  if  in  mute  appeal  to  heaven,  then,  whirling 
about,  shook  his  play-book  at  the  unfortunate  Marion, 
crying  out  furiously: 

“ Ah,  it  lacked  but  that.  You  ought  to  understand 
at  last,  that  when  one  rehearses  for  a play  one  does  not 
have  the  nose-bleed.  It  is  not  decent.” 

Miss  Gretry  retired  precipitately,  and  Laura  came  for- 
ward to  say  that  she  would  read  Marion’s  lines. 

“No,  no!”  cried  Monsieur  Gerardy.  “You — ah,  if 
they  were  all  like  yoit!  You  are  obliging,  but  it  does 
not  suffice.  I am  insulted.” 

The  others,  astonished,  gathered  about  the  “ coach.” 
They  laboured  to  explain.  Miss  Gretry  had  intended  no 
slight.  In  fact  she  was  often  taken  that  way;  she  was 
excited,  nervous.  But  Monsieur  Gerardy  was  not  to  be 
placated.  Ah,  no!  He  knew  what  was  due  a gentle- 
man. He  closed  his  eyes  and  raised  his  eyebrows  to  his 
very  hair,  murmuring  superbly  that  he  was  offended. 
He  had  but  one  phrase  in  answer  to  all  their  explana- 
tions: 

“ One  does  not  permit  one’s  self  to  bleed  at  the  nose 
during  rehearsal.” 

Laura  began  to  feel  a certain  resentment.  The  unfor- 
tunate Gretry  girl  had  gone  away  in  tears.  What  with 
the  embarrassment  of  the  wrong  gown,  the  brow-beat- 
ing, and  the  nose-bleed,  she  was  not  far  from  hysterics. 
She  had  retired  to  the  dining-room  with  Mrs.  Cressler, 
and  from  time  to  time  the  sounds  of  her  distress  made 


A Story  of  Chicago 


I2I 


themselves  heard.  Laura  believed  it  quite  time  to  inter- 
fere. After  all,  who  was  this  Gerardy  person,  to  give 
himself  such  airs?  Poor  Miss  Gretry  was  to  blame  for 
nothing.  She  fixed  the  little  Frenchman  with  a direct 
glance,  and  Page,  who  caught  a glimpse  of  her  face, 
recognised  “ the  grand  manner,”  and  whispered  to 
Landry  : 

“ He’d  better  look  out;  he’s  gone  just  about  as  far  as 
Laura  will  allow.” 

“ It  is  not  convenient,”  vociferated  the  " coach.”  “ It 
is  not  permissible.  I am  offended.” 

“ Monsieur  Gerardy,”  said  Laura,  “ we  will  say  noth- 
ing more  about  it,  if  you  please.” 

There  was  a silence.  Monsieur  Gerardy  had  pre- 
tended not  to  hear.  He  breathed  loud  through  his  nose. 
and  Page  hastened  to  observe  that  anyhow  Marion  was 
not  on  in  the  next  scenes.  Then  abruptly,  and  resum- 
ing his  normal  expression,  Monsieur  Gerardy  said: 

“ Let  us  proceed.  It  advances  nothing  to  lose  time. 

Come.  Lady  Mary  and  Arthur,  ready.” 

The  rehearsal  continued.  Laura,  who  did  not  come 
on  during  the  act,  went  back  to  her  chair  in  the  corner 
of  the  room. 

But  the  original  group  had  been  broken  up.  Mrs. 
Cressler  was  in  the  dining-room  with  the  Gretry  girl, 
while  Jadwin,  Aunt  Wess’,  and  Cressler  himself  were  • 
deep  in  a discussion  of  mind-reading  and  spiritualism. 

As  Laura  came  up,  Jadwin  detached  himself  from  the 
others  and  met  her. 

“Poor  Miss  Gretry!”  he  observed.  “Always  the 
square  peg  in  the  round  hole.  I’ve  sent  out  for  some 
smelling  salts.” 

It  seemed  to  Laura  that  the  capitalist  was  especially 
well-looking  on  this  particular  evening.  He  never 
dressed  with  the  “ smartness  ” of  Sheldon  Corthell  or 


122 


The  Pit 


Landry  Court,  but  in  some  way  she  did  not  expect  that 
he  should.  His  clothes  were  not  what  she  was  aware 
were  called  “ stylish,”  but  she  had  had  enough  experi- 
ence with  her  own  tailor-made  gowns  to  know  that  the 
material  was  the  very  best  that  money  could  buy.  The 
apparent  absence  of  any  padding  in  the  broad  shoulders 
of  the  frock  coat  he  wore,  to  her  mind,  more  than  com- 
pensated for  the  “ ready-made  ” scarf,  and  if  the  white 
waistcoat  was  not  fashionably  cut,  she  knew  that  she  had 
never  been  able  to  afford  a pique  skirt  of  just  that  par- 
ticular grade. 

“ Suppose  we  go  into  the  reception-room,”  he  ob- 
served abruptly.  “ Charlie  bought  a new  clock  last 
week  that’s  a marvel.  You  ought  to  see  it.” 

“ No,”  she  answered.  “ I am  quite  comfortable  here, 
and  I want  to  see  how  Page  does  in  this  act.” 

“ I am  afraid.  Miss  Dearborn,”  he  continued,  as  they 
found  their  places,  “ that  you  did  not  have  a very  good 
time  Sunday  afternoon.” 

He  referred  to  the  Easter  festival  at  his  mission 
school.  Laura  had  left  rather  early,  alleging  neuralgia 
and  a dinner  engagement. 

“ Why,  yes  I did,”  she  replied.  “ Only,  to  tell  the 
truth,  my  head  ached  a little.”  She  was  ashamed  that  she 
did  not  altogether  delight  in  her  remembrance  of  Jad- 
win  on  that  afternoon.  He  had  “ addressed  ” the  school, 
with  earnestness  it  was  true,  but  in  a strain  decidedly 
conventional.  And  the  picture  he  made  leading  the 
singing,  beating  time  with  the  hymn-book,  and  between 
the  verses  declaring  that  “ he  wanted  to  hear  everyone’s 
voice  in  the  next  verse,”  did  not  appeal  very  forcibly  to 
her  imagination.  She  fancied  Sheldon  Corthell  doing 
these  things,  and  could  not  forbear  to  smile.  She  had 
to  admit,  despite  the  protests  of  conscience,  that  she 
did  prefer  the  studio  to  the  Sunday-school. 


123 


A Story  of  Chicago 

“ Oh/*  remarked  Jadwin,  “ I’m  sorry  to  hear  you  had 
a headache.  I suppose  my  little  micks  ” (he  invariably 
spoke  of  his  mission  children  thus)  “ do  make  more 
noise  than  music.” 

“I  found  them  very  interesting.” 

^ No,  excuse  me,  but  I’m  afraid  you  didn’t.  My  little 
micks  are  not  interesting — to  look  at  nor  to  listen  to. 

But  I,  kind  of — ^well,  I don't  know,”  he  began  pulling  his 
mustache.  “ It  seems  to  suit  me  to  get  down  there  and 
get  hold  of  these  people.  You  know  Moodv  put  me  up 
to  it.  He  was  here  about  five  years  ago,  and  I went 
to  one  of  his  big  meetings,  and  then  to  all  of  them.  And 
I met  the  fellow,  too,  and  I tell  you.  Miss  Dearborn,  he 
stirred  me  all  up.  I didn’t  “ get  religion.”  No,  nothing 
like  that.  But  I got  -a  notion  it  was  time  to  be  up  and/XA-^*"*^ 
doing,  and  I figured  it  out  that  business  principles  were 
as  good  in  religion  as  they  are — well,  in  La  Salle  Street, 
and  that  if  the  church  people — the  men  I mean — put 
as  much  energy,  and  shrewdness,  and  competitive  spirit 
into  the  saving  of  souls  as  they  did  into  the  saving  of 
dollars  that  we  might  get  somewhere.  And  so  I took 
hold  of  a half  dozen  broken-down,  bankrupt  Sunday- 
school  concerns  over  here  on  Archer  Avenue  that  were 
fighting  each  other  all  the  time,  and  amalgamated  them 
all — a regular  trust,  just  as  if  they  were  iron  foundries — 
and  turned  the  incompetents  out  and  put  my  subordi- 
nates in,  and  put  the  thing  on  a business  basis,  and  by 
now,  I’ll  venture  to  say,  there’s  not  a better  organised 
Sunday-school  in  all  Chicago,  and  I’ll  bet  if  D.  L.  Moody 
were  here  to-day  he’d  say^  ‘ Jadwin,  well  done,  'thou 
good  and  faithful  servant.’^ 

“ I haven’t  a doubt  of  it,  Mr.  Jadwin,”  Laura  hastened 
to  exclaim.  “ And  you  must  not  think  that  I don’t  be- 
lieve you  are  doing  a splendid  work.” 

“Well,  it  suits  me,”  he  repeated.  “I  like  my  little 


micks,  and  now  and  then  I have  a chance  to  get  hold  of 
the  kind  that  it  pays  to  push  along.  About  four  months 
ago  I came  across  a boy  in  the  Bible  class;  I guess  he’s 
about  sixteen ; name  is  Bradley— ^illy  Bradley,  father  a 
confirmed  drunk,  mother  takes  in  washing,  sister — we 
won’t  speak  about;  and  he  seemed  to  be  bright  and  will- 
ing to  work,  and  I gave  him  a job  in  my  agent’s  office, 
just  directing  envelopes.  Well,  Miss  Dearborn,  that 
boy  has  a desk  of  his  own  now,  and  the  agent  tells  me 
he’s  one  of  the  very  best  men  he’s  got.  He  does  his 
work  so  well  that  I’ve  been  able  to  discharge  two  other 
fellows  who  sat  around  and  watched  the  clock  for  lunch 
hour,  and  Bradley  does  their  work  now  better  and 
uicker  than  they  did,^and  saves  me  twenty  dollars  a 
week;  that’s  a thousand  a year^.  So  much  for  a business 
like  Sunday-school ; so  much  for  taking  a good  aim  when 
you  cast  your  bread  upon  the  waterOThe  last  time  I saw 


Moody  I said,  IMoodv.  mv  motto  'is  “ not  slothful  in 


business,  fervent  in  spirit,  praising  the  Lord.”  ’ I re- 
member we  were  out  driving  at  the  time,  1 took  him  out 
behind  Lizella — she’s  almost  straight  Wilkes’  blood  and 
can  trot  in  two-ten,  but  you  can  believe  he  didn’t  know 
that — and,  as  I say,  I told  him  what  my  motto  was,  and 
he  said,  ‘J.,  good  for  you;  you  keep  to  that.  There's 
no  better  motto  in  the  world  for  the  American  man  of 
business.’  He  shook  my  hand  when  he  said  it,  and  I 
haven’t  ever  forgotten  it.” 

Not  a little  embarrassed,  Laura  was  at  a loss  just 
what  to  say,  and  in  the  end  remarked  lamely  enough : 

“ I am  sure  it  is  the  right  spirit — the  best  motto.” 

“ Miss  Dearborn,”  Jadwin  began  again  suddenly, 
“ why  don’t  you  take  a class  down  there.  The  little 
micks  aren’t  so  dreadful  when  you  get  to  know  them.” 

“I!”  exclaimed  Laura,  rather  blankly.  She  shook 
her  head.  “ Oh,  no,  Mr.  Jadwin.  I should  be  only  an 


125 


A Story  of  Chicago 

encumbrance.  Don’t  misunderstand  me.  I approve  of 
the  work  with  all  my  heart,  but  I am  not  fitted — I feel 
no  call.  I should  be  so  inapt  that  I know  I should  do 
no  good.  My  training  has  been  so  different,  you  know,” 
she  said,  smiling.  “ I am  an  Episcopalian — ‘ of  the 
straightest  sect  of  the  Pharisees.’  I should  be  teaching 
your  little  micks  all  about  the  meaning  of  candles,  and 
‘ Eastings,’  and  the  absolution  and  remission  of  sins.” 

“ I wouldn’t  care  if  you  did,”  he  answered.  “ It’s  the 
indirect  influence  I’m  thinking  of — the  indirect  influence 
that  a beautiful,  pure-hearted,  noble-minded  woman 
spreads  around  her  wherever  she  goes.  I know  what 
it  has  done  for  me.  And  I know  that  not  only  my  little 
micks,  but  every  teacher  and  every  superintendent  in 
that  school  would  be-  inspired,  and  stimulated,  and  born 
again  so  soon  as  ever  you  set  foot  in  the  building.  Men 
need  good  women.  Miss  Dearborn.  Men  who  are  doing 
the  work  of  the  world.  I believe  in  women  as  I be- 
lieve in  Christ.  But  I don’t  believe  they  were 
made — any  more  than  Christ  was — to  cultivate — be- 
yond a certain  point — their  own  souls,  and  refine 
their  own  minds,  and  live  in  a sort  of  warmed- 
over,  dilettante,  stained-glass  world  of  seclusion  and 
e.rclusion.  s No,  sir,  that  won’t  do  for  the  United  States 
and  the  men  who  are  making  them  the  greatest  nation 
of  the  world.  The  men  have  got  all  the  get-up-and-get 
they  want,  but  they  need  the  women  to  point  them 
straight,  and  to  show  them  how  to  lead  that  other  kind 
of  life  that  isn’t  all  grind.  Since  I’ve  known  you.  Miss 
Dearborn,  I’ve  just  begun  to  wake  up  to  the  fact  that 
there  is  that  other  kind,  but  I can’t  lead  that  life  without 
you.  There’s  no  kind  of  life  that’s  worth  anything  to  me 

now  that  don’t  include  you. ^I  don’t  need  to  tell  you 

that  I want  you  to  marry  me.  You  know  that  by  now, 
T guess,  without  any  words  from  me.  I love  you,  and 


126 


The  Pit 


I love  you  as  a man,  not  as  a boy,  seriously  and  ear- 
nestly. I can  give  you  no  idea  how  seriously,  how  ear- 
nestly. I want  you  to  be  my  wife.  Laura,  my  dear 
girl,  I know  I could  make  you  happy.” 

“ It  isn’t,”  answered  Laura  slowly,  perceiving  as  he 
paused  that  he  expected  her  to  say  something,  “ so 
much  a question  of  that.” 

“ What  is  it,  then  ? I won’t  make  a scene.  Don’t 
you  love  me?  Don’t  you  think,  my  girl,  you  could 
ever  love  me  ? ” 

Laura  hesitated  a long  moment.  She  had  taken  the 
rose  from  her  shoulder,  and  plucking  the  petals  one  by 
one,  put  them  delicately  between  her  teeth.  From  the 
other  end  of  the  room  came  the  clamorous  exhorta- 
tions of  Monsieur  Gerardy.  Mrs.  Cressler  and  the 
Gretry  girl  watched  the  progress  of  the  rehearsal  atten- 
tively from  the  doorway  of  the  dining-room.  Aunt 
Wess’  and  Mr.  Cressler  were  discussing  psychic  re- 
search and  seances,  on  the  sofa  on  the  other  side  of  the 
room.  After  a while  Laura  spoke. 

“ It  isn’t  that  either,”  she  said,  choosing  her  words 
carefully. 

“ What  is  it,  then?  ” 

“ I don’t  know — exactly.  For  one  thing,  I don’t 
think  I want  to  be  married,  Mr.  Jadwin — to  anybody.” 

“ I would  wait  for  you.” 

“ Or  to  be  engaged.” 

“ But  the  day  must  come,  sooner  or  later,  when  you 
must  be  both  engaged  and  married.  You  must  ask 
yourself  some  time  if  you  love  the  man  who  wishes  to 
be  your  husband.  Why  not  ask  yourself  now'?  ” 

“ I do,”  she  answered.  “ I do  ask  myself.  I have 
asked  myself.” 

“ Well,  what  do  you  decide?  ” 

“ That  I don’t  know.” 


A Story  of  Chicago  127 

“ Don’t  you  think  you  would  love  me  in  time  ? 
Laura,  I am  sure  you  would.  I would  make  you.” 

“ I don’t  know.  I suppose  that  is  a stupid  answer. 
But  it  is,  if  I am  to  be  honest,  and  I am  trying  very 
hard  to  be  honest — with  you  and  with  myself — the  only 
one  I have.  I am  happy  just  as  I am.  I like  you  and 
Mr.  Cressler  and  Mr.  Corthell — everybody.  But,  Mr. 
Jadwin  ” — she  looked  him  full  in  the  face,  her  dark 
eyes  full  of  gravity — “ with  a woman  it  is  so  serious 
— to  be  married.  More  so  than  any  man  ever  under- 
stood. And,  oh,  one  must  be  so  sure,  so  sure.  And 
I am  not  sure  now.  I am  not  sure  now.  Even  if  I 
were  sure  of  you,  I could  not  say  I was  sure  of  myself. 
Now  and  then  I tell  myself,  and  even  poor,  dear  Aunt 
Wess’,  that  I shall  never  love  anybody,  that  I shall  never 
marry.  But  I should  be  bitterly  sorry  if  I thought 
that  was  true.  It  is  one  of  the  greatest  happinesses 
to  w'hich  I look  forward,  that  some  day  I shall  love 
some  one  with  all  my  heart  and  soul,  and  shall  be  a 
true  wife,  and  find  my  husband’s  love  for  me  the  sweet- 
est thing  in  my  life.  But  I am  sure  that  that  day  has 
not  come  yet.” 

“ And  when  it  does  come,”  he  urged,  “ may  I be  the 
first  to  know  ? ” 

She  smiled  a little  gravely. 

“ Ah,”  she  answered,  “ I would  not  know  myself  that 
that  day  had  come  until  I woke  to  the  fact  that  I loved 
the  man  who  had  asked  me  to  be  his  wife,  and  then  it 
might  be  too  late — for  you.”  . 

“ But  now,  at  least,”  he  persisted,  “ you  love  no  one.”  ' 

“ Now,”  she  repeated,  “ I love — no  one.” 

“ And  I may  take  such  encouragement  in  that  as  I 
can  ? ” 

And  then,  suddenly,  capriciously  even,  Laura,  an  in- 
explicable spirit  of  inconsistency  besetting  her,  was  a 


128 


The  Pit 


very  different  woman  from  the  one  Who  an  instant  be- 
fore had  spoken  so  gravely  of  the  seriousness  of  mar- 
riage. She  hesitated  a moment  before  answering  Jad- 
win,  her  head  on  one  side,  looking  at  the  rose  leaf 
between  her  fingers.  In  a low  voice  she  said  at  last: 

“ If  you  like.” 

But  before  Jadwin  could  reply,  Cressler  and  Aunt 
Wess’  who  had  been  telling  each  other  of  their  “ ex- 
periences,” of  their  “ premonitions,”  of  the  unaccount- 
able things  that  had  happened  to  them,  at  length  in- 
cluded the  others  in  their  conversation. 

“ J.,”  remarked  Cressler,  “ did  anything  funny  ever 
happen  to  you — warnings,  presentiments,  that  sort  of 
thing?  Mrs.  Wessels  and  I have  been  talking  spiritual- 
ism. Laura,  have  you  ever  had  any  ‘ experiences  ’ ? ” 

She  shook  her  head. 

“ No,  no.  I am  too  material,  I am  afraid.” 

“ How  about  you,  ‘ J.’  ? ” 

“ Nothing  much,  except  that  I believe  in  ‘ luck  ’ — a 
little.  The  other  day  I flipped  a coin  in  Gretry’s  office. 
If  it  fell  heads  I was  to  sell  wheat  short,  and  somehow 
I knew  all  the  time  that  the  coin  would  fall  heads — and 
so  it  did.” 

“ And  you  made  a great  deal  of  money,”  said  Laura. 
” I know.  Mr.  Court  was  telling  me.  That  was  splen- 
did.” 

“ That  was  deplorable,  Laura,”  said  Cressler,  gravely. 
“ I hope  some  day,”  he  continued,  “ we  can  all  of  us 
get  hold  of  this  man  and  make  him  solemnly  promise 
never  to  gamble  in  wheat  again.” 

Laura  stared.  To  her  mind  the  word  “ gambling  ” 
had  always  been  suspect.  It  had  a bad  sound;  it  seemed 
to  be  associated  with  depravity  of  the  baser  sort. 

“ Gambling ! ” she  murmured. 

“ They  call  it  buying  and  selling,”  he  went  on,  “ down 


A Story  of  Chicago 


129 


there  in  La  Salle  Street.  But  it  is  simply  betting. 
Betting  on  the  condition  of  the  market  weeks,  even 
months,  in  advance.  You  bet  wheat  goes  up.  I bet 
it  goes  down.  Those  fellows  in  the  Pit  don’t  own  the 
wheat;  never  even  see  it.  Wouldn’t  know  what  to  do 
with  it  if  they  had  it.  They  don’t  care  in  the  least 
about  the  grain.  But  there  are  thousands  upon  thou- 
sands of  farmers  out  here  in  Iowa  and  Kansas  or  Da- 
kota who  do,  and  hundreds  of  thousands  of  poor  devils  • . 
in  Europe  who  care  even  more  than  the  farmer.  I 
mean  the  fellows  who  raise  the  grain,  and  the. other 
fellows  who  eat  it.  It’s  life  or  death  for  either  of 
them.  And  right  between  these  two  comes  the  Chi- 
cago speculator,  who  raises  or  lowers  the  price  out  of 
all  reason,  for  the  -benefit  of  his  pocket.  You  see 
Laura,  here  is  what  I mean.”  Cressler  had  suddenly 
become  very  earnest.  Absorbed,  interested,  Laura  list- 
ened intently.  “ Here  is  what  I mean,”  pursued 
Cressler.  “ It’s  like  this : If  we  send  the  price  of  wheat 
down  too  far,  the  farmer  suffers,  the  fellow  who  raises 
it;  if  we  send  it  up  too  far,  the  poor  man  in  Europe 
suffers,  the  fellow  who  eats  it.  And  food  to  the  peas- 
ant on  the  continent  is  bread — not  meat  or  potatoes, 
as  it  is  with  us.  The  only  way  to  do  so  that  neither 
the  American  farmer  nor  the  European  peasant  suffers, 
is  to  keep  wheat  at  an  average,  legitimate  value.  The 
moment  you  inflate  or  depress  that,  somebody  suffers 
right  away.  And  that  is  just  what  these  gamblers  are 
doing  all  the  time,  booming  it  up  or  booming  it  down. 

Think  of  it,  the  food  of  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  thou- 
sands of  people  just  at  the  mercy  of  a few  men  down 
there  on  the  Board  of  Trade.  They  make  the  price. 

They  say  just  how  much  the  peasant  shall  pay  for  his 
loaf  of  bread.  If  he  can’t  pay  the  price  he  simply 
starves.  And  as  for  the  farmer,  why  it’s  ludicrous. 


9 


130 


The  Pit 


If  I build  a house  and  offer  it  for  sale,  I put  my  own 
price  on  it,  and  if  the  price  offered  don’t  suit  me  I don’t 
sell.  But  if  I go  out  here  in  Iowa  and  raise  a crop 
of  wheat,  I’ve  got  to  sell  it,  whether  I want  to  or  not, 
at  the  figure  named  by  some  fellows  in  Chicago.  And 
to  make  themselves  rich,  they  may  make  me  sell  it  at  a 
price  that  bankrupts  me.” 

Laura  nodded.  She  was  intensely  interested.  A 
whole  new  order  of  things  was  being  disclosed,  and 
for  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  looked  into  the  work- 
ings of  political  economy. 

“ Oh,  that’s  only  one  side  of  it,”  Cressler  went  on, 
heedless  of  Jadwin’s  good-humoured  protests.  “Yes, 
I know  I am  a crank  on  speculating.  I’m  going  to 
preach  a little  if  you’ll  let  me.  I’ve  been  a speculator 
myself,  and  a ruined  one  at  that,  and  I know  what  I 
am  talking  about.  Here  is  what  I was  going  to  say. 
These  fellows  themselves,  the  gamblers — ^well,  call  them 
speculators,  if  you  like.  Oh,  the  fine,  promising 
manly  young  men  I’ve  seen  wrecked — absolutely  and 
hopelessly  wrecked  and  ruined  by  speculation ! It’s  as 
easy  to  get  into  as  going  across  the  street.  They  make 
three  hundred,  five  hundred,  yes,  even  a thousand  dol- 
lars sometimes  in  a couple  of  hours,  without  so  much 
as  raising  a finger.  Think  what  that  means  to  a boy 
of  twenty-five  who’s  doing  clerk  work  at  seventy-five 
a month.  Why,  it  would  take  him  maybe  ten  years 
to  save  a thousand,  and  here  he’s  made  it  in  a single 
morning.  Think  you  can  keep  him  out  of  speculation 
then?  First  thing  you  know  he’s  thrown  up  his  hon- 
est, humdrum  position — oh.  I’ve  seen  it  hundreds  of 
times — and  takes  to  hanging  round  the  customers’ 
rooms  down  there  on  La  Salle  Street,  and  he  makes  a 
little,  and  makes  a little  more,  and  finally  he  is  so  far 
in  that  he  can’t  pull  out,  and  then  some  billionaire  fel- 


A Story  of  Chicago  13 1 

low,  who  has  the  market  in  the  palm  of  his  hand, 
tightens  one  finger,  and  our  young  man  is  ruined,  body 
and  mind.  He’s  lost  the  taste,  the  very  capacity  for 
legitimate  business,  and  he  stays  on  hanging  round  the 
Board  till  he  gets  to  be — all  of  a sudden — an  old  man. 
And  then  some  day  some  one  says,  ‘ Why,  where’s  So- 
and-so  ? ’ and  you  wake  up  to  the  fact  that  the  young 
fellow  has  simply  disappeared — lost.  I tell  you  the 
fascination  of  this  Pit  gambling  is  something  no  one 
who  hasn’t  experienced  it  can  have  the  faintest  con- 
ception of.  I believe  it’s  worse  than  liquor,  worse  than 
morphine.  Once  you  get  into  it,  it  grips  you  and 
draws  you  and  draws  you,  and  the  nearer  you  get  to 
the  end  the  easier  it  seems  to  win,  till  all  of  a sudden, 
ah ! there’s  the  whirlpool.  . . . ‘ J.,’  keep  away  from 
it,  my  boy.” 

Jadwin  laughed,  and  leaning  over,  put  his  fingers 
upon  Cressler’s  breast,  as  though  turning  off  a switch. 

“ Now,  Miss  Dearborn,”  he  announced,  “ we’ve  shut 
him  off.  Charlie  means  all  right,  but  now  and  then 
some  one  brushes  against  him  and  opens  that  switch.” 

Cressler,  good-humouredly  laughed  with  the  others, 
but  Laura’s  smile  was  perfunctory  and  her  eyes  were 
grave.  But  there  was  a diversion.  While  the  others 
had  been  talking  the  rehearsal  had  proceeded,  and  now 
Page  beckoned  to  Laura  from  the  far  end  of  the  parlor, 
calling  out : 

“ Laura — ‘ Beatrice,’  it’s  the  third  act.  You  are 
wanted.” 

“ Oh,  I must  run,”  exclaimed  Laura,  catching  up  her 
play-book.  “ Poor  Monsieur  Gerardy — we  must  be  a 
trial  to  him.” 

She  hurried  across  the  room,  where  the  coach  was 
disposing  the  furniture  for  the  scene,  consulting  the 
stage  directions  in  his  book: 


132 


The  Pit 


“ Here  the  kitchen  table,  here  the  old-fashioned  writ- 
ing-desk, here  the  armoire  with  practicable  doors,  here 
the  window.  Soh!  Who  is  on?  Ah,  the  young  lady 
of  the  sick  nose,  ‘ Marion.’  She  is  discovered — knitting. 
And  then  the  duchess — ^later.  That’s  you  Mademoi- 
selle Dearborn.  You  interrupt — you  remember.  But 
then  you,  ah,  you  always  are  right.  If  they  were  all 
like  you.  Very  well,  we  begin.” 

Creditably  enough  the  Gretry  girl  read  her  part, 
Monsieur  Gerardy  interrupting  to  indicate  the  cross- 
ings and  business.  Then  at  her  cue,  Laura,  who  was 
to  play  the  role  of  the  duchess,  entered  with  the  words : 

“ I beg  your  pardon,  but  the  door  stood  open.  May 
I come  in?  ” 

Monsieur  Gerardy  murmured: 

“ Elle  est  vraiment  superbe.” 

Laura  to  the  very  life,  to  every  little  trick  of  carriage 
and  manner  was  the  high-born  gentlewoman  visiting 
the  home  of  a dependent.  Nothing  could  have  been 
more  dignified,  more  gracious,  more  gracefully  conde- 
scending than  her  poise.  She  dramatised  not  only  her 
role,  but  the  whole  of  her  surroundings.  The  interior 
of  the  little  cottage  seemed  to  define  itself  with  almost 
visible  distinctness  the  moment  she  set  foot  upon  the 
scene. 

Gerardy  tiptoed  from  g^oup  to  group,  whispering: 

“Eh?  Very  fine,  our  duchess.  She  would  do  well 
professionally.” 

But  Mrs.  Wessels  was  not  altogether  convinced. 
Her  eyes  following  her  niece,  she  said  to  Corthell : 

“ It’s  Laura’s  ‘ grand  manner.’  My  word,  I know  her 
in  that  part.  That’s  the  way  she  is  when  she  comes 
down  to  the  parlor  of  an  evening,  and  Page  introduces 
her  to  one  of  her  young  men.” 

“ I nearly  die,”  protested  Page,  beginning  to  laugh. 


133 


A Story  o{  Chicago 

“ Of  course  it’s  very  natural  I should  want  my  friends 
to  like  my  sister.  And  Laura  comes  in  as  though  she 
were  walking  on  eggs,  and  gets  their  names  wrong, 
as  though  it  didn’t  much  matter,  and  calls  them  Pinky 
when  their  name  is  Pinckney,  and  don’t  listen  to  what 
they  say,  till  I want  to  sink  right  through  the  floor  with 
mortification.” 

In  haphazard  fashion  the  rehearsal  wore  to  a close. 
Monsieur  Gerardy  stormed  and  fretted  and  insisted 
upon  repeating  certain  scenes  over  and  over  again. 
By  ten  o’clock  the  actors  were  quite  worn  out.  A 
little  supper  was  served,  and  very  soon  afterward  Laura 
made  a move  toward  departing.  She  was  wondering 
who  would  see  her  home,  Landry,  Jadwin,  or  Sheldon 
Corthell. 

The  day  had  been  sunshiny,  warm  even,  but  since 
nine  o’clock  the  weather  had  changed  for  the  worse, 
and  by  now  a heavy  rain  was  falling,  Mrs.  Cressler 
begged  the  two  sisters  and  Mrs.  Wessels  to  stay  at  her 
house  over  night,  but  Laura  refused.  Jadwin  was  sug- 
gesting to  Cressler  the  appropriateness  of  having  the 
coupe  brought  around  to  take  the  sisters  home,  when 
Corthell  came  up  to  Laura. 

“ I sent  for  a couple  of  hansoms  long  since,”  he  said. 
“ They  are  waiting  outside  now.”  And  that  seemed  to 
settle  the  question. 

For  all  Jadwin’s  perseverance,  the  artist  seemed— for 
this  time  at  least — to  have  the  better  of  the  situation. 

As  the  good-bys  were  being  said  at  the  front  door 
Page  remarked  to  Landry : 

“You  had  better  go  with  us  as  far  as  the  house,  so 
that  you  can  take  one  of  our  umbrellas.  You  can  get 
in  with  Aunt  Wess’  and  me.  There’s  plenty  of  room. 
You  can’t  go  home  in  this  storm  without  an  umbrella.” 

Landry  at  first  refused,  haughtily.  He  might  be  too 


134 


The  Pit 


poor  to  parade  a lot  of  hansom  cabs  around,  but  he 
was  too  proud,  to  say  the  least,  to  ride  in  ’em  when 
some  one  else  paid. 

Page  scolded  him  roundly.  What  next?  The  idea. 
He  was  not  to  be  so  completely  silly.  She  didn’t  pro- 
pose to  have  the  responsibility  of  his  catching  pneu- 
monia just  for  the  sake  of  a quibble. 

“ Some  people,”  she  declared,  “ never  seemed  to  be 
able  to  find  out  that  they  are  grown  up.” 

“Very  well,”  he  announced,  “ I’ll  go  if  I can  tip  the 
driver  a dollar.” 

Page  compressed  her  lips. 

“ The  man  that  can  afford  dollar  tips,”  she  said,  “ can 
afford  to  hire  the  cab  in  the  first  place.” 

“ Seventy-five  cents,  then,”  he  declared  resolutely. 
“ Not  a cent  less.  I should  feel  humiliated  with  any 
less.” 

“ Will  you  please  take  me  down  to  the  cab,  Landry 
Court  ? ” she  cried.  And  without  further  comment  Lan- 
dry obeyed. 

“ Now,  Miss  Dearborn,  if  you  are  ready,”  exclaimed 
Corthell,  as  he  came  up.  He  held  the  umbrella  over 
her  head,  allowing  his  shoulders  to  get  the  drippings. 

They  cried  good-by  again  all  around,  and  the  artist 
guided  her  down  the  slippery  steps.  He  handed  her 
carefully  into  the  hansom,  and  following,  drew  down 
the  glasses. 

Laura  settled  herself  comfortably  far  back  in  her 
corner,  adjusting  her  skirts  and  murmuring: 

“ Such  a wet  night.  Who  would  have  thought  it  was 
going  to  rain?  I was  afraid  you  were  not  coming  at 
first,”  she  added.  “ At  dinner  Mrs.  Cressler  said  you 
had  an  important  committee  meeting — something  to 
do  with  the  Art  Institute,  the  award  of  prizes ; was  that 
it?” 


A Story  of  Chicago 


135 


“ Oh,  yes,”  he  answered.  Indifferently,  “ something 
of  the  sort  was  on.  I suppose  it  was  important — for 
the  Institute.  But  for  me  there  is  only  one  thing  of  im- 
portance nowadays,”  he  spoke  with  a studied  careless- 
ness, as  though  announcing  a fact  that  Laura  must 
know  already,  “ and  that  is,  to  be  near  you.  It  is  aston- 
ishing. You  have  no  idea  of  it,  how  I have  ordered 
my  whole  life  according  to  that  idea.” 

“As  though  you  expected  me  to  believe  that,”  she 
answered. 

In  her  other  lovers  she  knew  her  words  would  have 
provoked  vehement  protestation.  But  for  her  it  was 
part  of  the  charm  of  Corthell’s  attitude  that  he  never 
did  or  said  the  expected,  the  ordinary.  Just  now  he 
seemed  more  Interested  in  the  effect  of  his  love  for 
Laura  upon  himself  than  in  the  manner  of  her  recep- 
tion of  it. 

“ It  is  curious,”  he  continued.  “ I am  no  longer  a 
boy.  I have  no  enthusiasms.  I have  known  many 
women,  and  I have  seen  enough  of  what  the  crowd 
calls  love  to  know  how  futile  it  is,  how  empty,  a vanity 
of  vanities.  I had  imagined  that  the  poets  were  wrong, 
were  idealists,  seeing  the  things  that  should  be  rather 
than  the  things  that  were.  And  then,”  suddenly  he 
drew  a deep  breath;  “ i his  happiness;  and  to  me.  And 
the  miracle,  the  wonderful  is  there — all  at  once — in 
my  heart,  in  my  very  hand,  like  a mysterious,  beautiful 
exotic.  The  poets  are  wrong,”  he  added.  “ They  have 
not  been  idealists  enough.  I wish — ah,  well,  never 
mind.” 

“ What  is  it  that  you  wish?  ” she  asked,  as  he  broke 
off  suddenly.  Laura  knew  even  before  she  spoke  that 
it  would  have  been  better  not  to  have  prompted  him 
to  continue.  Intuitively  she  had  something  more  than 
a suspicion  that  he  had  led  her  on  to  say  these  very 


136 


The  Pit 


words.  And  in  admitting  that  she  cared  to  have  the 
conversation  proceed  upon  this  footing,  she  realised 
that  she  was  sheering  towards  unequivocal  coquetry. 
She  saw  the  false  move  now,  knew  that  she  had  lowered 
her  guard.  On  all  accounts  it  would  have  been  more 
dignified  to  have  shown  only  a mild  interest  in  what 
Corthell  wished.  She  realised  that  once  more  she  had 
acted  upon  impulse,  and  she  even  found  time  to  wonder 
again  how  it  was  that  when  with  this  man  her  im- 
pulses, and  not  her  reason  prevailed  so  often.  With 
Landry  or  with  Curtis  Jadwin  she  was  always  calm, 
tranquilly  self-possessed.  But  Corthell  seemed  able  to 
reach  all  that  was  impetuous,  all  that  was  unreasoned 
in  her  nature.  To  Landry  she  was  more  than  any- 
thing else,  an  older  sister.  Indulgent,  kind-hearted. 
With  Jadwin  she  found  that  all  the  serious,  all  the  sin- 
cere, earnest  side  of  her  character  was  apt  to  come  to 
the  front.  But  Corthell  stirred  troublous,  unknown 
deeps  in  her,  certain  undefined  trends  of  recklessness ; 
and  for  so  long  as  he  held  her  within  his  influence,  she 
could  not  forget  her  sex  a single  instant. 

It  dismayed  her  to  have  this  strange  personality  of 
hers,  this  other  headstrong,  impetuous  self,  discovered 
to  her.  She  hardly  recognised  it.  It  made  her  a little 
afraid;  and  yet,  wonder  of  wonders,  she  could  not 
altogether  dislike  it.  There  was  a certain  fascination 
in  resigning  herself  for  little  instants  to  the  dominion 
of  this  daring  stranger  that  was  yet  herself. 

Meanwhile  Corthell  had  answered  her: 

“ I wish,”  he  said,  “ I wish  you  could  say  something 
— I hardly  know  what — something  to  me.  So  little 
would  be  so  much.” 

“But  what  can  I say?”  she  protested.  “I  don't 
know — I — what  can  I say?” 

“ It  must  be  yes  or  no  for  me,”  he  broke  out.  “ I 
can’t  go  on  this  way.” 


A Story  of  Chicago 


137 


“But  why  not?  Why  not?”  exclaimed  Laura. 

‘Why  must  we — terminate  anything?  Why  not  let 
things  go  on  just  as  they  are?  We  are  quite  happy  as 
we  are.  There’s  never  been  a time  of  my  life  when  I’ve 
been  happier  than  this  last  three  or  four  months.  I 
don’t  want  to  change  anything.  Ah,  here  we  are.” 

The  hansom  drew  up  in  front  of  the  house.  Aunt 
Wess’  and  Page  were  already  inside.  The  maid  stood 
in  the  vestibule  in  the  light  that  streamed  from  the 
half-open  front  door,  an  umbrella  in  her  hand.  And  as 
Laura  alighted,  she  heard  Page’s  voice  calling  from 
the  front  hall  that  the  others  had  umbrellas,  that  the 
maid  was  not  to  wait. 

The  hansom  splashed  away,  and  Corthell  and  Laura 
mounted  the  steps  of  the  house. 

“Won’t  you  come  in?”  she  said.  “There  is  a fire 
in  the  library.” 

But  he  said  no,  and  for  a few  seconds  they  stood 
under  the  vestibule  light,  talking.  Then  Corthell,  draw- 
ing off  his  right-hand  glove,  said : 

“ I suppose  that  I have  my  answer.  You  do  not 
wish  for  a change.  I understand.  You  wish  to  say 
by  that,  that  you  do  not  love  me.  If  you  did  love  me 
as  I love  you,  you  would  wish  for  just  that — a change. 
You  would  be  as  eager  as  I for  that  wonderful,  wonder- 
ful change  that  makes  a new  heaven  and  a new  earth.” 

This  time  Laura  did  not  answer.  There  was  a mo- 
ment’s silence.  Then  Corthell  said: 

“ Do  you  know,  I think  I shall  go  away.” 

“ Go  away?  ” 

“Yes,  to  New  York.  Possibly  to  Paris.  There  is 
a new  method  of  fusing  glass  that  I’ve  promised  my- 
self long  ago  I would  look  into.  I don’t  know  that  it 
interests  me  much — now.  But  I think  I had  better 
go.  At  once,  within  the  week.  I’ve  not  much  heart 


138 


The  Pit 


in  it;  but  it  seems — under  the  circumstances — to  be 
appropriate.”  He  held  out  his  bared  hand.  Laura 
saw  that  he  was  smiling-. 

“ Well,  Miss  Dearborn — good-by.” 

“ But  why  should  you  go  ? ” she  cried,  distressfully. 
“ How  perfectly — ah,  don’t  go,”  she  exclaimed,  then  in 
desperate  haste  added:  “It  would  be  absolutely  fool- 
ish.” 

^ “ Shall  I stay?  ” he  urged.  “ Do  you  tell  me  to  stay?  ” 

“ Of  course  I do,”  she  answered.  “ It  would  break 
up  the  play — your  going.  It  would  spoil  my  part. 
You  play  opposite  me,  you  know.  Please  stay.” 

“ Shall  I stay,”  he  asked,  “ for  the  sake  of  your 
part  ? There  is  no  one  else  you  would  rather  have  ? ” 
He  was  smiling  straight  into  her  eyes,  and  she  guessed 
what  he  meant. 

She  smiled  back  at  him,  and  the  spirit  of  daring 
never  more  awake  in  her,  replied,  as  she  caught  his 
eye : 

“ There  is  no  one  else  I would  rather  have.” 

Corthell  caught  her  hand  of  a sudden. 

“ Laura,”  he  cried,  “ let  us  end  this  fencing  and 
quibbling  once  and  for  all.  Dear,  dear  girl,  I love 
you  with  all  the  strength  of  all  the  good  in  me.  Let 
me  be  the  best  a man  can  be  to  the  woman  he  loves.” 

Laura  flashed  a smile  at  him. 

“ If  you  can  make  me  love  you  enough,”  she  an- 
swered. 

“ And  you  think  I can  ? ” he  exclaimed, 

" You  have  my  permission  to  tr}%”  she  said. 

She  hoped  fervently  that  now,  without  further  words, 
he  would  leave  her.  It  seemed  to  her  that  it  would 
be  the  most  delicate  chivalry  on  his  part — having  won 
this  much — to  push  his  advantage  no  further.  She 
waited  anxiously  for  his  next  words.  She  began  to 


A Story  of  Chicago  13^ 

fear  that  she  had  trusted  too  much  upon  her  assurance 
of  his  tact. 

Corthell  held  out  his  hand  again. 

“ It  is  good-night,  then,  not  good-by.” 

“ It  is  good-night,”  said  Laura. 

With  the  words  he  was  gone,  and  Laura,  entering 
the  house,  shut  the  door  behind  her  with  a long  breath 
of  satisfaction. 

Page  and  Landry  were  still  in  the  library.  Laura 
joined  them,  and  for  a few  moments  the  three  stood 
before  the  fireplace  talking  about  the  play.  Page  at 
length,  at  the  first  opportunity,  excused  herself  and 
went  to  bed.  She  made  a great  show  of  leaving  Lan- 
dry and  Laura  alone,  and  managed  to  convey  the  im- 
pression that  she  understood  they  were  anxious  to  be 
rid  of  her. 

“ Only  remember,”  she  remarked  to  Laura  severely, 
“ to  lock  up  and  turn  out  the  hall  gas.  Annie  has  gone 
to  bed  long  ago.” 

“ I must  dash  along,  too,”  declared  Landry  when 
Page  was  gone. 

He  buttoned  his  coat  about  his  neck,  and  Laura  fol- 
lowed him  out  into  the  hall  and  found  an  umbrella  for 
him. 

“ You  were  beautiful  to-night,”  he  said,  as  he  stood 
with  his  hand  on  the  door  knob.  “ Beautiful.  I could 
not  keep  my  eyes  off  of  you,  and  I could  not  listen  to 
anybody  but  you.  And  now,”  he  declared,  solemnly, 
“ I will  see  your  eyes  and  hear  your  voice  all  the  rest 
of  the  night.  I want  to  explain,”  he  added,  “ about 
those  hansoms — about  coming  home  with  Miss  Page 
and  Mrs.  Wessels.  Mr.  Corthell — those  were  his  han- 
i soms,  of  course.  But  I wanted  an  umbrella,  and  I gave 
I the  driver  seventy-five  cents.” 

“Why  of  course,  of  course,”  said  Laura,  not  quite 
divining  what  he  was  driving  at. 


140 


The  Pk 


I don’t  want  you  to  think  that  I would  be  willing  to 
put  myself  under  obligations  to  anybody.” 

“Of  course,  Landry;  I understand.” 

He  thrilled  at  once. 

“ Ah,”  he  cried,  “ you  don’t  know  what  it  means  to 
me  to  look  into  the  eyes  of  a woman  who  really  under- 
stands.” 

Laura  stared,  wondering  just  what  she  had  said. 

“ Will  you  turn  this  hall  light  out  for  me,  Landry?  ” 
she  asked.  “ I never  can  reach.” 

He  left  the  front  door  open  and  extinguished  the  jet 
in  its  dull  red  globe.  Promptly  they  were  involved  in 
darkness. 

“ Good-night,”  she  said.  “ Isn’t  it  dark  ? ” 

He  stretched  out  his  hand  to  take  hers,  but  instead 
his  groping  fingers  touched  her  waist.  Suddenly 
Laura  felt  his  arm  clasp  her.  Then  all  at  once,  before 
she  had  time  to  so  much  as  think  of  resistance,  he  had 
put  both  arms  about  her  and  kissed  her  squarely  on  her 
cheek. 

Then  the  front  door  closed,  and  she  was  left  ab- 
ruptly alone,  breathless,  stunned,  staring  wide-eyed  into 
the  darkness. 

Her  first  sensation  was  one  merely  of  amazement. 
She  put  her  hand  quickly  to  her  cheek,  first  the  palm 
and  then  the  back,  murmuring  confusedly: 

“What?  Why?— why?” 

Then  she  whirled  about  and  ran  up  the  stairs,  her 
silks  clashing  and  fluttering  about  her  as  she  fled, 
gained  her  own  room,  and  swung  the  door  violently 
shut  behind  her.  She  turned  up  the  lowered  gas  and, 
without  knowing  why,  faced  her  mirror  at  once,  study- 
ing her  reflection  and  watching  her  hand  as  it  all  but 
scoured  the  offended  cheek. 

Then,  suddenly,  with  an  upward,  uplifting  rush,  her 


A Story  of  Chicago 


141 


anger  surged  within  her.  She,  Laura,  Miss  Dearborn, 
who  loved  no  man,  who  never  conceded,  never  capitu- 
lated, whose  “ grand  manner  ” was  a thing  proverbial, 
in  all  her  pitch  of  pride,  in  her  own  home,  her  own 
fortress,  had  been  kissed,  like  a school-girl,  like  a 
chambermaid,  in  the  dark,  in  a corner. 


And  by — great  heavens  ! — Landry  Court.  The 


whom  she  fancied  she  held  in  such  subjection,  such  pro- 
found respect.  Landry  Court  had  dared,  had  dared  to 
kiss  her,  to  offer  her  this  wretchedly  commonplace  and 
petty  affront,  degrading  her  to  the  level  of  a pretty 
waitress,  making  her  ridiculous. 

She  stood  rigid,  drawn  to  her  full  height,  in  the  cen- 
tre of  her  bedroom,  her  fists  tense  at  her  sides,  her 
breath  short,  her  eyes  flashing,  her  face  aflame.  From 
time  to  time  her  words,  half  smothered,  burst  from  her. 

“What  does  he  think  I am  f How  dared  he?  How 
dared  he  ? ” 

All  that  she  could  say,  any  condemnation  she  could 
formulate  only  made  her  position  the  more  absurd,  the 
more  humiliating.  It  had  all  been  said  before  by 
generations  of  shop-girls,  school-girls,  and  servants,  in 
whose  company  the  affront  had  ranged  her.  Landry 
was  to  be  told  in  effect  that  he  was  never  to  presume 
to  seek  her  acquaintance,  again.  Just  as  the  enraged 
hussy  of  the  street  corners  and  Sunday  picnics  shouted 
that  the  offender  should  “ never  dare  speak  to  her 
again  as  long  as  he  lived.”  Never  before  had  she  been 
subjected  to  this  kind  of  indignity.  And  simultane- 
ously with  the  assurance  she  could  hear  the  shrill  voice 
of  the  drab  of  the  public  balls  proclaiming  that  she 
had  “ never  been  kissed  in  all  her  life  before.” 

Of  all  slights,  of  all  insults,  it  was  the  one  that  robbed 
her  of  the  very  dignity  she  should  assume  to  rebuke  it. 
The  more  vehemently  she  resented  it,  the  more  laugh- 
able became  the  whole  affair. 


142 


The  Pit 


But  she  would  resent  it,  she  would  resent  it,  and 
Landry  Court  should  be  driven  to  acknowledge  that 
the  sorriest  day  of  his  life  was  the  one  on  which  he  had 
forgotten  the  respect  in  which  he  had  pretended  to  hold 
her.  He  had  deceived  her,  then,  all  along.  Because 
she  had — foolishly — relaxed  a little  towards  him,  per- 
mitted a certain  intimacy,  this 'was"” how  he  abused  it. 
Ah,  well,  it  would  teach  her  a lesson.  Men  were  like 
that.  She  might  have  known  it  would~come'~to~~Efiis.' 
Wilfully  they  chose  to  misunderstand,  to  take  advan- 
tage of  her  frankness,  her  good  nature,  her  good  com- 
radeship. 

She  had  been  foolish  all  along,  flirting — yes,  that 
was  the  word  for  it — ^flirting  with  Landry  and  Corthell 
and  Jadwin.  No  doubt  they  all  compared  notes  about 
her.  Perhaps  they  had  bet  who  first  should  kiss  her. 
Or,  at  least,  there  was  not  one  of  them  who  would  not 
kiss  her  if  she  gave  him  a chance. 

But  if  she,  in  any  way,  had  been  to  blame  for  what 
Landry  had  done,  she  would  atone  for  it.  She  had  made 
herself  too  cheap,  she  had  found  amusement  in  en- 
couraging these  men,  in  equivocating,  in  coquetting 
with  them.  Now  it  was  time  to  end  the  whole  business, 
to  send  each  one  of  them  to  the  right-about  with  an 
wn-equivocal  definite  word.  She  was  a good  girl,  she 
told  herself.  She  was,  in  her  heart,  sincere ; she  was 
above  the  inexpensive  diversion  of  flirting.  She  had 
started  wrong  in  her  new  life,  and  it  was  time,  high 
time,  to  begin  over  again — with  a clean  page — to  show 
these  men  that  they  dared  not  presume  to  take  liber- 
ties with  so  much  as  the  tip  of  her  little  finger. 

So  great  was  her  agitation,  so  eager  her  desire  to 
act  upon  her  resolve,  that  she  could  not  wait  till  morn- 
ing. It  was  a physical  impossibility  for  her  to  remain 
under  what  she  chose  to  believe  suspicion  another  hour. 


A Story  of  Chicago  ' 143 

If  there  was  any  remotest  chance  that  her  three  lovers 
had  permitted  themselves  to  misunderstand  her,  they 
were  to  be  corrected  at  once,  were  to  be  shown  their 
place,  and  that  without  mercy. 

She  called  for  the  maid,  Annie,  whose  husband  was 
the  janitor  of  the  house,  and  who  slept  in  the  top  story. 

“ If  Henry  hasn’t  gone  to  bed,”  said  Laura,  “ tell  him 
to  wait  up  till  I call  him,  or  to  sleep  with  his  clothes 
on.  There  is  something  I want  him  to  do  for  me — 
something  important.” 

It  was  close  upon  midnight.  Laura  turned  back  into 
her  room,  removed  her  hat  and  veil,  and  tossed  them, 
with  her  coat,  upon  the  bed.  She  lit  another  burner  of 
the  chandelier,  and  drew  a chair  to  her  writing-desk 
between  the  windows.. 

Her  first  note  was  to  Landry  Court.  She  wrote  it 
almost  with  a single  spurt  of  the  pen,  and  dated  it  care- 
fully, so  that  he  might  know  it  had  been  written  im- 
mediately after  he  had  left.  Thus  it  ran : 

“ Please  do  not  try  to  see  me  again  at  any  time  or 
under  any  circumstances.  I want  you  to  understand, 
very  clearly,  that  I do  not  wish  to  continue  our  ac- 
quaintance. ” 

Her  letter  to  Corthell  was  more  difficult,  and  it  was 
not  until  she  had  rewritten  it  two  or  three  times  that 
it  read  to  her  satisfaction. 

“ My  dear  Mr.  Corthell,”  so  it  was  worded,  “ you 
asked  me  to-night  that  our  fencing  and  quibbling  be 
brought  to  an  end.  I quite  agree  with  you  that  it  is 
desirable.  I spoke  as  I did  before  you  left  upon  an 
Impulse  that  I shall  never  cease  to  regret.  I do  not 
wish  you  to  misunderstand  me,  nor  to  misinterpret 
my  attitude  m any  way.  You  asked  me  to  be  your  wife, 
and,  very  foolishly  and  wrongly,  I gave  you — inten- 


144 


The  Pit 


tionally — an  answer  which  might  easily  be  construed 
into  an  encouragement.  Understand  now  that  I do  not 
wish  you  to  try  to  make  me  love  you.  I would  find  it 
extremely  distasteful.  And,  believe  me,  it  would  be 
quite  hopeless.  I do  not  now,  and  never  shall  care  for 
you  as  I should  care  if  I were  to  be  your  wife.  I be- 
seech you  that  you  will  not,  in  any  manner,  refer  again 
to  this  subject.  It  would  only  distress  and  pain  me. 

“ Cordially  yours, 

“ Laura  Dearborn.” 

The  letter  to  Curtis  Jadwin  was  almost  to  the  same 
eflect.  But  she  found  the  writing  of  it  easier  than  the 
others.  In  addressing  him  she  felt  herself  grow  a little 
more  serious,  a little  more  dignified  and  calm.  It  ran 
as  follows : 

“ My  dear  Mr.  Jadwin  : 

“ When  you  asked  me  to  become  your  wife  this  eve- 
ning, you  deserved  a straightforward  answer,  and  in- 
stead I replied  in  a spirit  of  capriciousness  and  disin- 
genuousness, which  I now  earnestly  regret,  and  which 
I ask  you  to  pardon  and  to  ignore. 

“ I allowed  myself  to  tell  you  that  you  might  find 
encouragement  in  my  foolishly  spoken  words.  I am 
deeply  sorry  that  I should  have  so  forgotten  what  was 
due  to  my  own  self-respect  and  to  your  sincerity. 

“ If  I have  permitted  myself  to  convey  to  you  the 
impression  that  I would  ever  be  willing  to  be  your  wife, 
let  me  hasten  to  correct  it.  Whatever  I said  to  you 
this  evening,  I must  answer  now — as  I should  have 
answered  then — truthfully  and  unhesitatingly,  no. 

“ This,  I insist,  must  be  the  last  word  between  us 
upon  this  unfortunate  subject,  if  we  are  to  continue,  as 
I hope,  very  good  friends. 

“ Cordially  yours, 

“Laura  Dearborn.” 


A Story  of  Chicago 


145 


She  sealed,  stamped,  and  directed  the  three  en- 
velopes, and  glanced  at  the  little  leather-cased  travelling 
clock  that  stood  on  the  top  of  her  desk.  It  was  nearly 
two. 

“ I could  not  sleep,  I could  not  sleep,”  she  mur- 
mured, “ if  I did  not  know  they  were  on  the  way.” 

In  answer  to  the  bell  Henry  appeared,  and  Laura 
gave  him  the  letters,  with  orders  to  mail  them  at  once 
in  the  nearest  box. 

When  it  was  all  over  she  sat  down  again  at  her  desk, 
and  leaning  an  elbow  upon  it,  covered  her  eyes  with 
her  hand  for  a long  moment.  She  felt  suddenly  very 
tired,  and  when  at  last  she  lowered  her  hand,  her  fin- 
gers were  wet.  But  in  the  end  she  grew  calmer.  She 
felt  that,  at  all  events,  she  had  vindicated  herself,  that 
her  life  would  begin  again  to-morrow  with  a clean 
page ; and  when  at  length  she  fell  asleep,  it  was  to  the 
dreamless  unconsciousness  of  an  almost  tranquil  mind. 

She  slept  late  the  next  morning  and  breakfasted  in 
bed  between  ten  and  eleven.  Then,  as  the  last  vibra- 
tions of  last  night’s  commotion  died  away,  a very  nat- 
ural curiosity  began  to  assert  itself.  She  wondered 
how  each  of  the  three  men  “ would  take  it.”  In  spite  of 
herself  she  could  not  keep  from  wishing  that  she  could 
be  by  when  they  read  their  dismissals. 

Towards  the  early  part  of  the  afternoon,  while  Laura 
was  in  the  library  reading  " Queen’s  Gardens,”  the 
special  delivery  brought  Landry  Court’s  reply.  It  was 
one  roulade  of  incoherence,  even  in  places  blistered 
with  tears.  Landry  protested,  implored,  debased  him- 
self to  the  very  dust.  His  letter  bristled  with  exclama- 
tion points,  and  ended  with  a prolonged  wail  of  dis- 
tress and  despair. 

Quietly,  and  with  a certain  merciless  sense  of  paci- 
fication, Laura  deliberately  reduced  the  letter  to  strips, 

10 


The  Pit 


14b 

burned  it  upon  the  hearth,  and  went  back  to  her  Rus- 
kin. 

A little  later,  the  afternoon  being  fine,  she  deter- 
mined to  ride  out  to  Lincoln  Park,  not  fifteen  minutes 
from  h ^r  home,  to  take  a little  walk  there,  and  to  see 
how  many  new  buds  were  out. 

As  she  was  leaving,  Annie  gave  into  her  hands  a 
pasteboard  box,  just  brought  to  the  house  by  a mes- 
senger boy. 

The  box  was  full  of  Jacqueminot  roses,  to  the  stems  of 
which  a note  from  Corthell  was  tied.  He  wrote  but  a 
single  line ; 

“So  t should  have  been  ‘ good-by  ’ after  all.” 

Laura  had  Annie  put  the  roses  in  Page’s  room. 

“Tell  Page  she  can  have  them;  I don’t  want  them. 
She  ca?  wear  them  to  her  dance  to-night,”  she  said. 

Whil ' to  herself  she  added: 

“ The  little  buds  in  the  park  will  be  prettier.” 

She  was  gone  from  the  house  over  two  hours,  for  she 
had  elected  to  walk  all  the  way  home.  She  came  back 
flushed  and  buoyant  from  her  exercise,  her  cheeks  cool 
with  the  Lake  breeze,  a young  maple  leaf  in  one  of  the 
revers  of  her  coat.  Annie  let  her  in,  murmuring: 

“ A gentleman  called  just  after  you  went  out.  I told 
him  you  were  not  at  home,  but  he  said  he  would  wait. 
He  is  in  the  library  now.” 

“Who  is  he?  Did  he  give  his  name?”  demanded 
Laura. 

The  maid  handed  her  Curtis  Jadwin’s  card. 


V 


That  year  the  spring  burst  over  Chicago  in  a pro-'A 
longed  scintillation  of  pallid  green.  For  weeks  con- 
tinually the  sun  shone.  The  Lake,  after  persistently 
cherishing  the  greys  and  bitter  greens  of  the  winter 
months,  and  the  rugged  white-caps  of  the  northeast 
gales,  mellowed  at  length,  turned  to  a softened  azure 
blue,  and  lapsed  by  degrees  to  an  unruffled  calmness, 
incrusted  with  innumerable  coruscations. 

In  the  parks,  first  of  all,  the  buds  and  earliest  shoots 
asserted  themselves.  The  horse-chestnut  bourgeons 
burst  their  sheaths  to  spread  into  trefoils  and^  flame- 
shaped leaves.  The  elms,  maples,  and  cottonwoods  fol- 
lowed. The  sooty,  blackened  snow  upon  the  grass 
plats,  in  the  residence  quarters,  had  long  since  subsided, 
softening  the  turf,  filling  the  gutters  with  rivulets.  On 
all  sides  one  saw  men  at  work  laying  down  the  new  sod 
in  rectangular  patches. 

There  was  a delicious  smell  of  ripening  in  the  air,  a 
smell  of  sap  once  more  on  the  move,  of  humid  earths 
disintegrating  from  the  winter  rigidity,  of  twigs  and 
slender  branches  stretching  themselves  under  the  re- 
turning warmth,  elastic  once  more,  straining  in  their 
bark. 

On  the  North  Side,  in  Washington  Square,  along  the 
Lake-shore  Drive,  all  up  and  down  the  Lincoln  Park 
Boulevard,  and  all  through  Erie,  Huron,  and  Superior 
streets, through  North  State  Street,  North  Clarke  Street, 
and  La  Salle  Avenue,  the  minute  sparkling  of  green 
flashed  from  tree  top  to  tree  top,  like  the  first  kindling 
of  dry  twigs.  One  could  almost  fancy  that  the  click 


148 


The  Pit 


of  igniting  branch  tips  was  audible  as  whole  beds  of  yel- 
low-green sparks  defined  themselves  within  certain  elms 
and  cottonwoods. 

Every  morning  the  sun  invaded  earlier  the  east  win- 
dows of  Laura  Dearborn’s  bedroom.  Every  day  at  noon 
it  stood  more  nearly  overhead  above  her  home.  Every 
afternoon  the  checkered  shadows  of  the  leaves  thick- 
ened upon  the  drawn  curtains  of  the  library.  Within 
doors  the  bottle-green  flies  came  out  of  their  lethargy 
^ and  droned  and  bumped  on  the  panes.  The  double 
windows  were  removed,  screens  and  awnings  took  their 
places;  the  summer  pieces  were  put  into  the  fireplaces. 

All  of  a sudden  vans  invaded  the  streets,  piled  high 
with  mattresses,  rocking-chairs,  and  bird  cages;  the  in- 
evitable “ spring  moving  ” took  place.  And  these  furni- 
ture vans  alternated  with  great  trucks  laden  with  huge 
elm  trees  on  their  way  from  nursery  to  lawn.  Families 
and  trees  alike  submitted  to  the  impulse  of  transplant- 
ing, abandoning  the  winter  quarters,  migrating  with  the 
spring  to  newer  environments,  taking  root  in  other  soils. 
Sparrows  wrangled  on  the  sidewalks  and  built  ragged 
nests  in  the  interstices  of  cornice  and  coping.  In  the 
parks  one  heard  the  liquid  modulations  of  robins.  The 
florists’  wagons  appeared,  and  from  house  to  house, 
from  lawn  to  lawn,  iron  urns  and  window  boxes  filled  up 
with  pansies,  geraniums,  fuchsias,  and  trailing  vines. 
The  flower  beds,  stripped  of  straw  and  manure,  bloomed 
again,  and  at  length  the  great  cottonwoods  shed  their 
berries,  like  clusters  of  tiny  grapes,  over  street  and  side- 
walk. 

At  length  came  three  days  of  steady  rain,  followed  by 
cloudless  sunshine  and  full-bodied,  vigorous  winds 
straight  from  out  the  south. 

Instantly  the  living  embers  in  tree  top  and  grass  plat 
were  fanned  to  flame.  Like  veritable  fire,  the  leaves 


A Story  of  Chicago 


149 


blazed  up.  Branch  after  branch  caught  and  crackled; 
even  the  dryest,  the  deadest,  were  enfolded  in  the  resist' 
less  swirl  of  green.  Tree  top  ignited  tree  top ; the  parks 
and  boulevards  were  one  smother  of  radiance.  From 
end  to  end  and  from  side  to  side  of  the  city,  fed  by  the 
rains,  urged  by  the  south  winds,  spread  billowing  and 
surging  the  superb  conflagration  of  the  coming  summer. 

Then,  abruptly,  everything  hung  poised;  the  leaves, 
the  flowers,  the  grass,  all  at  fullest  stretch,  stood  mo- 
tionless, arrested,  while  the  heat,  distilled,  as  it  were, 
from  all  this  seething  green,  rose  like  a vast  pillar  over 
the  city,  and  stood  balanced  there  in  the  iridescence  of 
the  sky,  moveless  and  immeasurable. 

From  time  to  time  it  appeared  as  if  this  pillar  broke 
in  the  guise  of  summer  storms,  and  came  toppling  down 
upon  the  city  in  tremendous  detonations  of  thunder  and 
weltering  avalanches  of  rain.  But  it  broke  only  to  re- 
form, and  no  sooner  had  the  thunder  ceased,  the  rain 
intermitted,  and  the  sun  again  come  forth,  than  one  re- 
ceived the  vague  impression  of  the  swift  rebuilding  of 
the  vast,  invisible  column  that  smothered  the  city  under 
its  bases,  towering  higher  and  higher  into  the  rain- 
washed,  crystal-clear  atmosphere. 

Then  the  aroma  of  wet  dust,  of  drenched  pavements, 
musty,  acute — the  unforgettable  exhalation  of  the  city’s 
streets  after  a shower — pervaded  all  the  air,  and  the 
little  out-door  activities  resumed  again  under  the  drip- 
ping elms  and  upon  the  steaming  sidewalks. 

The  evenings  were  delicious.  It  was  yet  too  early 
for  the  exodus  northward  to  the  Wisconsin  lakes,  but 
to  stay  indoors  after  nightfall  was  not  to  be  thought  of. 
After  six  o’clock,  all  through  the  streets  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  the  Dearborns’  home,  one  could  see  the 
family  groups  “ sitting  out  ” upon  the  front  “ stoop.” 
Chairs  were  brought  forth,  carpets  and  rugs  unrolled 


*50 


The  Pit 


upon  the  steps.  From  within,  through  the  opened  win- 
dows of  drawing-room  and  parlour,  came  the  brisk  gaiety 
of  pianos.  The  sidewalks  were  filled  with  children 
- clamouring  at  “ tag,”  “ I-spy,”  or  “ run-sheep-run.” 
Girls  in  shirt-waists  and  young  men  in  flannel  suits 
promenaded  to  and  fro.  Visits  were  exchanged  from 
“ stoop  ” to  “ stoop,”  lemonade  was  served,  and  claret 
punch.  In  their  armchairs  on  the  top  step,  elderly  men, 
householders,  capitalists,  well-to-do,  their  large  stom- 
achs covered  with  white  waistcoats,  their  straw  hats 
upon  their  knees,  smoked  very  fragrant  cigars  in  silent 
enjoyment,  digesting  their  dinners,  taking  the  air  after 
the  grime  and  hurry  of  the  business  districts. 

It  was  on  such  an  evening  as  this,  well  on  towards 
the  last  days  of  the  spring,  that  Laura  Dearborn  and 
Page  joined  the  Cresslers  and  their  party,  sitting  out 
like  other  residents  of  the  neighbourhood  on  the  front 
steps  of  their  house.  Almost  every  evening  nowadays 
the  Dearborn  girls  came  thus  to  visit  with  the  Cresslers. 
Sometimes  Page  brought  her  mandolin. 

Every  day  of  the  warm  weather  seemed  only  to  in- 
crease the  beauty  of  the  two  sisters.  Page’s  brown  hair 
was  never  more  luxuriant,  the  exquisite  colouring  of  her 
cheeks  never  more  charming,  the  boyish  outlines  of  her 
small,  straight  figure — immature  and  a little  angular  as 
yet — never  more  delightful.  The  seriousness  of  her 
straight-browed,  grave,  grey-blue  eyes  was  still  present, 
but  the  eyes  themselves  were,  in  some  indefinable  way, 
deepening,  and  all  the  maturity  that  as  yet  was  with- 
held from  her  undeveloped  little  form  looked  out  from 
beneath  her  long  lashes. 

But  Laura  was  veritably  regal.  Very  slender  as  yet, 
no  trace  of  fulness  to  be  seen  over  hip  or  breast,  the 
curves  all  low  and  flat,  she  yet  carried  her  extreme 
height  with  tranquil  confidence,  the  unperturbed  assur- 
ance of  a chaiclaine  of  the  days  of  feudalism. 


A Story  of  Chicago 


151 

Her  coal-black  hair,  high-piled,  she  wore  as  if  it  were 
a coronet.  The  warmth  of  the  exuberant  spring  days 
had  just  perceptibly  mellowed  the  even  paleness  of  her 
face,  but  to  compensate  for  this  all  the  splendour  of 
coming  midsummer  nights  flashed  from  her  deep-brown 
eyes. 

On  this  occasion  she  had  put  on  her  coat  over  her 
shirt-waist,  and  a great  bunch  of  violets  was  tucked 
into  her  belt.  But  no  sooner  had  she  exchanged  greet- 
ings with  the  others  and  settled  herself  in  her  place  than 
she  slipped  her  coat  from  her  shoulders. 

It  was  while  she  was  doing  this  that  she  noted,  for  the 
first  time,  Landry  Court  standing  half  in  and  half  out 
of  the  shadow  of  the  vestibule  behind  Mr.  Cressler’s 
chair. 

“ This  is  the  first  time  he  has  been  here  since — since 
that  night,”  Mrs.  Cressler  hastened  to  whisper  in 
Laura’s  ear.  “ He  told  me  about — well,  he  told  me 
what  occurred,  you  know.  He  came  to  dinner  to-night, 
and  afterwards  the  poor  boy  nearly  wept  in  my  arms. 
You  never  saw  such  penitence.” 

Laura  put  her  chin  in  the  air  with  a little  movement 
of  incredulity.  But  her  anger  had  long  since  been  a 
thing  of  the  past.  Good-tempered,  she  could  not  cher- 
ish resentment  very  long.  But  as  yet  she  had  greeted 
Landry  only  by  the  briefest  of  nods. 

“Such  a warm  night!”  she  murmured,  fanning  her- 
self with  part  of  Mr.  Cressler’s  evening  paper.  “ And 
I never  was  so  thirsty.” 

“ Why,  of  course,”  exclaimed  Mrs,  Cressler.  “ Isa- 
bel,” she  called,  addressing  Miss  Gretry,  who  sat  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  steps,  “ isn’t  the  lemonade  near 
you?  Fill  a couple  of  glasses  for  Laura  and  Page.” 

Page  murmured  her  thanks,  but  Laura  declined. 

“ No;  just  plain  water  for  me,”  she  said.  “ Isn’t  there 


*52 


The  Pit 


some  inside?  Mr.  Court  can  get  it  for  me,  can’t  he?  ” 

Landry  brought  the  pitcher  back,  running  at  top 
speed  and  spilling  half  of  it  in  his  eagerness.  Laura 
thanked  him  with  a smile,  addressing  him,  however,  by 
his  last  name.  She  somehow  managed  to  convey  to 
him  in  her  manner  the  information  that  though  his  of- 
fence was  forgotten,  their  old-time  relations  were  not, 
for  one  instant,  to  be  resumed. 

Later  on,  while  Page  was  thrumming  her  mandolin, 
Landry  whistling  a “ second,”  Mrs.  Cressler  took  occa- 
sion to  remark  to  Laura; 

“ I was  reading  the  Paris  letter  in  the  ‘ Inter-Ocean  ’ 
to-day,  and  I saw  Mr.  Corthell’s  name  on  the  list  of 
American  arrivals  at  the  Continental.  I guess,”  she 
added,  “ he’s  going  to  be  gone  a long  time.  I wonder 
sometimes  if  he  will  ever  come  back.  A fellow  -with  his 
talent,  I should  imagine  would  find  Chicago — well,  less 
congenial,  anyhow,  than  Paris.  But,  just  the  same,  I 
do  think  it  was  mean  of  him  to  break  up  our  play  by 
going.  I’ll  bet  a cookie  that  he  wouldn’t  take  part  any 
more  just  because  you  wouldn’t.  He  was  just  crazy  to 
do  that  love  scene  in  the  fourth  act  with  you.  And  when 
you  wouldn’t  play,  of  course  he  wouldn’t;  and  then  every- 
body seemed  to  lose  interest  with  you  two  out.  ‘ J.’ 
took  it  all  very  decently  though,  don’t  you  think?  ” 

Laura  made  a murmur  of  mild  assent. 

“ He  was  disappointed,  too,”  continued  Mrs.  Cressler. 
“ I could  see  that.  He  thought  the  play  was  going  to 
interest  a lot  of  our  church  people  in  his  Sunday-school. 
But  he  never  said  a word  when  it  fizzled  out.  Is  he 
coming  to-night?” 

“ Well  I declare,”  said  Laura.  “ How  should  I know, 
if  you  don’t?” 

Jadwin  was  an  almost  regular  visitor  at  the  Cresslers’ 
during  the  first  warm  evenings.  He  lived  on  the 


153 


A Story  of  Chicago 

South  Side,  and  the  distance  between  his  home  and  that 
of  the  Cresslers  was  very  considerable.  It  was  seldom, 
however,  that  Jadwin  did  not  drive  over.  He  came  in 
his  double-seated  buggy,  his  negro  coachman  beside  him 
the  two  coach  dogs,  “ Rex  ” and  “ Rox,”  trotting  under 
the  rear  axle.  His  horses  were  not  showy,  nor  were 
they  made  conspicuous  by  elaborate  boots,  bandages, 
and  all  the  other  solemn  paraphernalia  of  the  stable,  yet 
men  upon  the  sidewalks,  amateurs,  breeders,  and  the 
like — men  who  understood  good  stock — never  failed  to 
stop  to  watch  the  team  go  by,  heads  up,  the  check  rein 
swinging  loose,  ears  all  alert,  eyes  all  alight,  the  breath 
deep,  strong,  and  slow,  and  the  stride,  machine-like,  even 
as  the  swing  of  a metronome,  thrown  out  from  the 
shoulder  to  knee,  snapped  on  from  knee  to  fetlock,  from 
fetlock  to  pastern,  finishing  squarely,  beautifully,  with 
the  thrust  of  the  hoof,  planted  an  instant,  then,  as  it 
were,  flinging  the  roadway  behind  it,  snatched  up  again, 
and  again  cast  forward. 

On  these  occasions  Jadwin  himself  inevitably  wore 
a black  “ slouch  ” hat,  suggestive  of  the  general  of  the 
Civil  War,  a grey  “ dust  overcoat  ” with  a black  velvet 
collar,  and  tan  gloves,  discoloured  with  the  moisture  of 
his  palms  and  all  twisted  and  crumpled  with  the  strain 
of  holding  the  thoroughbreds  to  their  work. 

He  always  called  the  time  of  the  trip  from  the  buggy 
at  the  Cresslers’  horse  block,  his  stop  watch  in  his  hand, 
and,  as  he  joined  the  groups  upon  the  steps,  he  was  al- 
most sure  to  remark:  “Tugs  were  loose  all  the  way 
from  the  river.  They  pulled  the  whole  rig  by  the  reins. 
My  hands  are  about  dislocated.” 

“ Page  plays  very  well,”  murmured  Mrs.  Cressler  as 
the  young  girl  laid  down  her  mandolin.  “ I hope  J. 
does  come  to-night,”  she  added.  “ I love  to  have  him 
'round.  He’s  so  hearty  and  whole-souled.” 


154 


The  Pit 


Laura  did  not  reply.  She  seemed  a little  preoccu- 
pied this  evening,  and  conversation  in  the  group  died 
away.  The  night  was  very  beautiful,  serene,  quiet  and, 
at  this  particular  hour  of  the  end  of  the  twilight,  no  one 
cared  to  talk  much.  Cressler  lit  another  cigar,  and  the 
filaments  of  delicate  blue  smoke  hung  suspended  about 
his  head  in  the  moveless  air.  Far  off,  from  the  direction 
of  the  mouth  of  the  river,  a lake  steamer  whistled  a pro- 
longed tenor  note.  Somewhere  from  an  open  window 
in  one  of  the  neighbouring  houses  a violin,  accompanied 
by  a piano,  began  to  elaborate  the  sustained  phrases  of 
“ Schubert’s  ^eren^de.”  Theatrical  as  was  the  theme, 
the  twilight  and  the  muffled  hum  of  the  city,  lapsing  to 
quiet  after  the  febrile  activities  of  the  day,  combined  to 
lend  it  a dignity,  a persuasiveness.  The  children  were 
still  playing  along  the  sidewalks,  and  their  staccato 
gaiety  was  part  of  the  quiet  note  to  which  all  sounds  of 
the  moment  seemed  chorded. 

After  a while  Mrs.  Cressler  began  to  talk  to  Laura  in 
a low  voice.  She  and  Charlie  were  going  to  spend  a 
part  of  June  at  Oconomowoc,  in  Wisconsin.  Why  could 
not  Laura  make  up  her  mind  to  come  with  them?  She 
had  asked  Laura  a dozen  times  already,  but  couldn’t  get 
a yes  or  no  answer  from  her.  What  was  the  reason  she 
could  not  decide?  Didn’t  she  think  she  would  have  a 
good  time? 

“ Page  can  go,”  said  Laura.  “ I would  like  to  have 
you  take  her.  But  as  for  me,  I don’t  know.  My  plans 
are  so  unsettled  this  summer.”  She  broke  off  suddenly. 
“ Oh,  now,  that  I think  of  it,  I want  to  borrow  your 
‘ Idylls  of  the^inp-.’  May  I take  it  for  a day  or  two  ? 
I’ll  run  in  and  get  it  now,”  she  added  as  she  rose.  “ I 
know  just  Where  to  find  it.  No,  please  sit  still,  Mr. 
Cressler.  I’ll  go.” 

And  with  the  words  she  disappeared  in  doors,  Ieav« 
ing  Mrs.  Cressler  to  murmur  to  hef  husband: 


155 


A Story  of  Chicago 

“ Strange  girl.  Sometimes  I think  I don’t  know 
Laura  at  all.  She’s  so  inconsistent.  How  funny  she 
acts  about  going  to  Oconomowoc  with  us ! ” 

Mr.  Cressler  permitted  himself  an  amiable  grunt  of 
protest. 

“Pshaw!  Laura’s  all  right.  The  handsomest  girl  in 
Cook  County.” 

“ Well,  that’s  not  much  to  do  with  it,  Charlie,” 
sighed  Mrs.  Cressler.  “ Oh,  dear,”  she  added  vaguely. 
“ I don’t  know.” 

“ Don’t  know  what?  ” 

“ I hope  Laura’s  life  will  be  happy.” 

“ Oh,  for  God’s  sake,  Carrie!  ” 

“ There’s  something  about  that  girl,”  continued  Mrs. 
Cressler,  “ that  makes  my  heart  bleed  for  her.” 

Cressler  frowned,  puzzled  and  astonished. 

“ Hey — what!  ” he  exclaimed.  “ You’re  crazy,  Car- 
rie! ” 

“ Just  the  same,”  persisted  Mrs.  Cressler,  “ I just 
yearn  towards  her  sometimes  like  a mother.  Some 
people  are  born  to  trouble,  Charlie;  born  to  trouble,  as 
the  sparks  fly  upward.  And  you  mark  my  words, 
Charlie  Cressler,  Laura  is  that  sort.  There’s  all  the 
pathos  in  the  world  in  just  the  way  she  looks  at  yoii 
from  under  all  that  black,  black  hair,  and  out  of  her 
eyes — the  saddest  eyes  sometimes,  great,  sad,  mournful 
eyes.” 

“Fiddlesticks!”  said  Mr.  Cressler,  resuming  his 
paper. 

“ I’m  positive  that  Sheldon  Corthell  asked  her  to 
marry  him,”  mused  Mrs.  Cressler  after  a moment’s  si- 
lence. “ I’m  sure  that’s  why  he  left  so  suddenly.” 

Her  husband  grunted  grimly  as  he  turned  his  paper 
so  as  to  catch  the  reflection  of  the  vestibule  light. 

“Don’t  you  think  so,  Charlie?” 


156 


The  Pit 


“ Uh ! I don’t  know.  I never  had  much  use  for  that 
fellow,  anyhow.” 

“ He’s  wonderfully  talented,”  she  commented,  “ and 
so  refined.  He  always  had  the  most  beautiful  manners. 
Did  you  ever  notice  his  hands?” 

» / “ I thought  they  were  like  a barber’s.  Put  him  in 
/ J.’s  ’ rig  there,  behind  those  horses  of  his,  and  how  long 
f do  you  suppose  he’d  hold  those  trotters  with  that  pair 
lof  hands?  Why,”  he  blustered,  suddenly,  “they’d  pull 
mim  right  over  the  dashboard.” 

' “ Poor  little  Landry  Court ! ” murmured  his  wife,  low- 
ering her  voice.  “ He’s  just  about  heart-broken.  He 
wanted  to  marry  her  too.  My  goodness,  she  must  have 
brought  him  up  with  a round  turn.  I can  see  Laura 
when  she  is  really  angry.  Poor  fellow!  ” 

“ If  you  women  would  let  that  boy  alone,  he  might 
amount  to  something.” 

“ He  told  me  his  life  was  ruined.” 

Cressler  threw  his  cigar  from  him  with  vast  impa- 
tience. 

“ Oh,  rot!  ” he  muttered. 

“ He  took  it  terribly,  seriously,  Charlie,  just  the 
same.” 

“ I’d  like  to  take  that  young  boy  in  hand  and  shake 
some  of  the  nonsense  out  of  him  that  you  women  have 
filled  him  with.  He’s  got  a level  head.  On  the  floor 
every  day,  and  never  yet  bought  a hatful  of  wheat  on 
his  own  account.  Don’t  know  the  meaning  of  specula- 
tion and  don’t  want  to.  There’s  a boy  with  some  sense.” 

“ It’s  just  as  well,”  persisted  Mrs.  Cressler  reflect- 
ively, “ that  Laura  wouldn’t  have  him.  Of  course 
they’re  not  made  for  each  other.  But  I thought  that 
Corthell  would  have  made  her  happy.  But  she  won’t 
ever  marry  ‘ J.’  He  asked  her  to;  she  didn’t  tell  me, 
but  I know  he  did.  And  she’s  refused  him  flatly.  She 


157 


A Story  of  Chicago 

won’t  marry  anybody,  she  says.  Said  she  didn’t  love 
anybody,  and  never  would.  I’d  have  loved  to  have  seen 
her  married  to  ‘ J.,’  but  I can  see  now  that  they  wouldn’t 
have  been  congenial;  and  if  Laura  wouldn’t  have  Shel- 
don Corthell,  who  was  just  made  for  her,  I guess  it  was 
no  use  to  expect  she’d  have  ‘ J.’  Laura’s  got  a tem- 
perament, and  she’s  artistic,  and  loves  paintings,  and 
poetry,  and  Shakespeare,  and  all  that,  and  Curtis  don’t 
care  for  those  things  at  all.  They  wouldn’t  have  had 
anything  in  common.  But  Corthell — that  was  different. 
And  Laura  did  care  for  him,  liCa~way.  He  interested 
her  immensely.  When  he’d  get  started  on  art  subjects 
Laura  would  just  hang  on  every  word.  My  lands,  I 
wouldn’t  have  gone  away  if  I’d  been  in  his  boots.  You 
mark  my  words,  Charlie,  there  was  the  man  for  Laura 
Dearborn,  and  she’ll  marry  him  yet,  or  I’ll  miss  my 
guess.” 

“ That’s  just  like  you,  Carrie — you  and  the  rest  of  the 
women,”  exclaimed  Cressler,  “ always  scheming  to 
marry  each  other  off.  Why  don’t  you  let  the  girl  alone? 
Laura’s  all  right.  She  minds  her  own  business,  and 
she’s  perfectly  happy.  But  you’d  go  to  work  and  get 
up  a sensation  about  her,  and  say  that  your  ‘ heart 
bleeds  for  her,’  and  that  she’s  born  to  trouble,  and  has 
sad  eyes.  If  she  gets  into  trouble  it’ll  be  because  some 
one  else  makes  it  for  her.  You  take  my  advice,  and  let 
her  paddle  her  own  canoe.  She’s  got  the  head  to  do  it; 
don’t  you  worry  about  that.  By  the  way — ” Cressler 
interrupted  himself,  seizing  the  opportunity  to  change 
the  subject.  “ By  the  way,  Carrie,  Curtis  has  been 
speculating  again.  I’m  sure  of  it.” 

“ Too  bad,”  she  murmured. 

“ So  it  is,”  Cressler  went  on.  “ He  and  Gretry  are 
thick  as  thieves  these  days.  Gretry,  I understand,  has 
been  selling  September  wheat  for  him  all  last  week,  and 


158 


The  Pit 


only  this  morning  they  closed  out  another  scheme- 
some  corn  game.  It  was  all  over  the  Floor  just  about 
closing  time.  They  tell  me  that  Curtis  landed  between 
eight  and  ten  thousand.  Always  seems  to  win.  I’d 
give  a lot  to  keep  him  out  of  it;  but  since  his  deal  in 
May  wheat  he’s  been  getting  into  it  more  and  more.” 

“ Did  he  sell  that  property  on  Washington  Street?  ” 
she  inquired. 

“ Oh,”  exclaimed  her  husband,  “ I’d  forgot.  I meant 
to  tell  you.  No,  he  didn’t  sell  it.  But  he  did  better. 
Fie  wouldn’t  sell,  and  those  department  store  people 
took  a lease.  Guess  what  they  pay  him.  Three  hun- 
dred thousand  a year.  ‘ J.’  is  getting  richer  all  the 
time,  and  why  he  can’t  be  satisfied  with  his  own  business 
instead  of  monkeying  ’round  La  Salle  Street  is  a mys- 
tery to  me.” 

But,  as  Mrs.  Cressler  was  about  to  reply,  Laura  came 
to  the  open  window  of  the  parlour. 

“ Oh,  Mrs.  Cressler,”  she  called,  “ I don’t  seem  to  find 
your  ‘ Idylls  ’ after  all.  I thought  they  were  in  the  little 
book-case.” 

“ Wait.  I’ll  find  them  for  you,”  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Cressler. 

“ Would  you  mind?”  answered  Laura,  as  Mrs.  Cress- 
ler rose. 

Inside,  the  gas  had  not  been  lighted.  The  library 
was  dark  and  cool,  and  when  Mrs.  Cressler  had  found 
the  book  for  Laura  the  girl  pleaded  a headache  as  an 
excuse  for  remaining  within.  The  two  sat  down  by  the 
raised  sash  of  a window  at  the  side  of  the  house,  that 
overlooked  the  “ side  yard,”  where  the  morning-glories 
and  nasturtiums  were  in  full  bloom. 

“ The  house  is  cooler,  isn’t  it  ? ” observ’^ed  Mrs.  Cress- 
ler. 

Laura  settled  herself  in  her  wicker  chair,  and  with  a 


159 


A Story  of  Chicago 

gesture  that  of  late  had  become  habitual  with  her  pushed 
her  heavy  coils  of  hair  to  one  side  and  patted  them  softly 
to  place. 

“ It  is  getting  warmer,  I do  believe,”  she  said,  rather 
listlessly.  “ I understand  it  is  to  be  a very  hot  sum- 
mer.” Then  she  added,  “I’m  to  be  married  in  July, 
Mrs.  Cressler.” 

MrsT'Cressler  gasped,  and  sitting  bolt  upright  stared 
for  one  breathless  instant  at  Laura’s  face,  dimly  visible 
in  the  darkness.  Then,  stupefied,  she  managed  to  vo- 
ciferate : 

“What!  Laura!  Married?  My  darling  girl!  ” 

“ Yes,”  answered  Laura  calmly.  “ In  July — or  may- 
be sooner.” 

“ Why,  I thought  you  had  rejected  Mr.  Corthell.  I 
thought  that’s  why- he  went  away.” 

“ Went  away?  He  never  went  away.  I mean  it’s  not 
M^CorthelT. ' -MT.TaTwin.” 

Thank  God!  ’’  declared  Mrs.  Cressler  fervently,  and 
with  the  words  kissed  Laura  on  both  cheeks.  “ My 
dear,  dear  child,  you  can’t  tell  how  glad  I am.  From 
the  very  first  I’ve  said  you  were  made  for  one  another. 
And  I thought  all  the  time  that  you’d  told  him  you 
wouldn’t  have  him.” 

“ I did,”  said  Laura.  Her  manner  was  quiet.  She 
seemed  a little  grave.  “ I told  him  I did  not  love  him. 
Only  last  week  I told  him  so.” 

“ Well,  then,  why  did  you  promise?  ” 

“My  goodness!”  exclaimed  Laura,  with  a show  of 
animation.  “ You  don’t  realize  what  it’s  been.  Do  you 
suppose  you  can  say  ‘ no  ’ to  that  man?  ” 

“ Of  course  not,  of  course  not,”  declared  Mrs.  Cress- 
ler joyfully.  “ That’s  * J.’  all  over.  I might  have  known 
he’d  have  you  if  he  set  out  to  do  it.” 

“ Morning,  noon,  and  night,”  Laura  continued.  “ He 


i6o 


The  Pit 


seemed  willing  to  wait  as  long  as  I wasn’t  definite;  but 
one  day  I wrote  to  him  and  gave  him  a square  ‘ No,’  so 
as  he  couldn’t  mistake,  and  just  as  soon  as  I’d  said  that 
he — he — began.  I didn’t  have  any  peace  until  I’d  prom- 
ised him,  and  the  moment  I had  promised  he  had  a ring 
on  my  finger.  He’d  had  it  ready  in  his  pocket  for  weeks 
it  seems.  No,”  she  explained,  as  Mrs.  Cressler  laid 
her  fingers  upon  her  left  hand,  “ That  I would  not  have 

it  was  like  ‘ J.’  to  be  persistent,”  repeated  Mrs. 

“ Persistent  ! ” murmured  Laura.  “ He  simply 
wouldn’t  talk  of  anything  else.  It  was  making  him  sick, 
he  said.  And  he  did  have  a fever — often.  But  he  would 
come  out  to  see  me  just  the  same.  One  night,  when  it 
was  pouring  rain — Well,  I’ll  tell  you.  He  had  been 
to  dinner  with  us,  and  afterwards,  in  the  drawing-room, 
I told  him  ‘ no  ’ for  the  hundredth  time  just  as  plainly 
as  I could,  and  he  went  away  early — it  wasn’t  eight.  I 
thought  that  now  at  last  he  had  given  up.  But  he  was 
back  again  before  ten  the  same  evening.  He  said  he 
had  come  back  to  return  a copy  of  a book  I had  loaned 
him — ‘Jane  Eyre’  it  was.  Raining!  I never  saw  it 
rain  as  it  did  that  night.  He  was  drenched,  and  even 
at  dinner  he  had  had  a low  fever.  And  then  I was  sorry 
for  him.  I told  him  he  could  come  to  see  me  again. 
I didn’t  propose  to  have  him  come  down  with  pneu- 
monia, or  typhoid,  or  something.  And  so  it  all  began 
over  again.” 

“ But  you  loved  him,  Laura?”  demanded  Mrs.  Cress- 
ler. “ You  love  him  now?  ” 

Laura  was  silent.  Then  at  length: 

“ I don’t  know,”  she  answered. 

“ Why,  of  course  you  love  him,  Laura,”  insisted  Mrs. 
Cressler.  “ You  wouldn’t  have  promised  him  if  you 
hadn’t.  Of  course  vou  love  him,  don’t  you?” 


• — ^yet.” 
^Oh, 
Chfissler 


A Story  of  Chicago 


i6i 


“ Yes,  I— I suppose  I must  love  him,  or — as  you  say— 
I wouldn’t  have  promised  to  marry  him.  He  does  every- 
thing, every  little  thing  I say.  He  just  seems  to  think 
of  nothing  else  but  to  please  me  from  morning  until 
night.  And  when  I finally  said  I would  marry  him,  why, 
Mrs.  Cressler,  he  choked  all  up,  and  the  tears  ran  down 
his  face,  and  all  he  could  say  was,  ‘ May  God  bless  you! 
May  God  bless  you  1 ’ over  and  over  again,  and  his  hand 
shook  so  that — Oh,  well,”  she  broke  off  abruptly. 
Then  added,  “ Somehow  it  makes  tears  come  to  my 
eyes  to  think  of  it.” 

“ But,  Laura,”  urged  Mrs.  Cressler,  “ you  love  Curtis, 
don’t  you?  You — you’re  such  a strange  girl  some- 
times. Dear  child,  talk  to  me  as  though  I were  your 
mother.  There’s  no  one  in  the  world  loves  you  more 
than  I do.  You  love  Curtis,  don’t  you?  ” 

Laura  hesitated  a long  moment. 

“ Yes,”  she  said,  slowly  at  length.  “ I think  I love 
him  very  much — sometimes.  And  then  sometimes  I 
think  I don’t.  I can’t  tell.  There  are  days  when  I’m 
sure  of  it,  and  there  are  others  when  I wonder  if  I want 
to  be  married,  after  all.  I thought  when  love  came  it 
was  to  be — oh,  uplifting,  something  glorious  like  Juliet’s 
love  or  Marguerite’s.  Something  that  would — ” Sud- 
denly she  struck  her  hand  to  her  breast,  her  fingers  shut 
tight,  closing  to  a fist.  “ Oh,  something  that  would 
shake  me  all  to  pieces.  I thought  that  was  the  only 
kind  of  love  there  was.” 

“ Oh,  that’s  what  you  read  about  in  trashy  novels,” 
Mrs.  Cressler  assured  her,  “ or  the  kind  you  see  at  the 
matinees.  I wouldn’t  let  that  bother  me,  Laura.  There’s 
no  doubt  that  ‘ loves  you” 

Laura  brightened  a little.  “ Oh,  no,”  she  answered, 
“ there’s  no  doubt  about  that.  It’s  splendid,  that  part 
of  it.  He  seems  to  think  there’s  nothing  in  the  world 


i62 


The  Pit 


Vr 


too  good  for  me.  Just  imagine,  only  yesterday  I was 
saying  something  about  my  gloves,  I really  forget  what 
— something  about  how  hard  it  was  for  me  to  get  the 
kind  of  gloves  I liked.  Would  you  believe  it,  he  got  me 
to  give  him  my  measure,  and  when  I saw  him  in  the 
evening  he  told  me  he  had  cabled  to  Brussels  to  some 
famous  glovemaker  and  had  ordered  I don’t  know  how 
many  pairs.” 

“Just  like  him,  just  like  him!”  cried  Mrs.  Cressler. 
“ I know  you  will  be  happy,  Laura,  dear.  You  can’t 
help  but  be/with  a man  who  loves  you  as  ‘ J.’  does.” 

“ I think  I shall  be  happy,”  answered  Laura,  suddenly 
grave.  “ Oh,  Mrs.  Cressler,  I want  to  be.  I hope  that 
I won’t  come  to  myself  some  day,  after  it  is  too  late, 
and  find  that  it  was  all  a mistake.”  Her  voice  shook  a 
little.  “ You  don’t  know  how  nervous  I am  these  days. 
One  minute  I am  one  kind  of  girl,  and  the  next  another 
kind.  I’m  so  nervous  and — oh,  I don’t  know.  Oh,  I 
guess  it  will  be  all  right.”  She  wiped  her  eyes,  and 
laughed  a note.  “ I don’t  see  why  I should  cry  about 
it,”  she  murmured. 

“ Well,  Laura,”  answered  Mrs.  Cressler,  “ if  you  don’t 
love  Curtis,  don’t  marry  him.  That’s  very  simple.” 

“ It’s  like  this,  Mrs.  Cressler,”  Laura  explained.  “ I 
suppose  I am  very  uncharitable  and  unchristian,  but  I 
like  the  people  that  like  me,  and  I hate  those  that  don’t 
like  me.  I can’t  help  it.  I know  it’s  wrong,  but  that’s 
the  way  I am.  And  I love  to  be  loved.  The  man  that 
would  love  me  the  most  would  make  me  love  him. 
And  when  Mr.  Jadwin  seems  to  care  so  much,  and  do 
so  much,  and — you  know  how  I mean;  it  does  make  a 
difference  of  course.  I suppose  I care  as  much  for 
Mr.  Jadwin  as  I ever  will  care  for  any  man.  I suppose 
I must  be  cold  and  unemotional.” 

Mrs.  Cressler  could  not  restrain  a movement  of  sur* 
prise. 


A Story  of  Chicago 


163 

"You  unemotional?  Why,  I thought  you  Just  said, 
Laura,  that  you  had  imagined  love  would  be  like  Juliet 
and  like  that  girl  in  ‘ Faust  ’ — that  it  was  going  to 
shake  you  all  to  pieces.” 

“ Did  I say  that  ? Well,  I told  you  I was  one  girl 
one  minute  and  another  another.  I don’t  know  my- 
self these  days.  Oh,  hark,”  she  said,  abruptly,  as  the 
cadence  of  hoofs  began  to  make  itself  audible  from  the 
end  of  the  side  street.  “ That’s  the  team  now.  I 
could  recognise  those  horses’  trot  as  far  as  I could  hear 
it.  Let’s  go  out.  I know  he  would  like  to  have  me 
there  when  he  drives  up.  And  you  know  ” — she  put  her 
hand  on  Mrs.  Cressler’s  arm  as  the  two  moved  towards 
the  front  door — “ this  is  all  absolutely  a secret  as  yet.” 

“ Why,  of  course,  Laura  dear.  But  tell  me  just  one 
thing  more,”  Mrs.  Cressler  asked,  in  a whisper,  “ are 
you  going  to  have  a church  wedding  ? ” 

" Hey,  Carrie,”  called  Mr.  Cressler  from  the  stoop, 
" here’s  J.” 

Laura  shook  her  head. 

" No,  I want  it  to  be  very  quiet — at  our  house.  We’ll 
go  to  Geneva  Lake  for  the  summer.  That’s  why,  you 
see,  I couldn’t  promise  to  go  to  Oconomowoc  with 
you.” 

They  came  out  upon  the  front  steps,  Mrs.  Cressler’s 
arm  around  Laura’s  waist.  It  was  dark  by  now,  and  the 
air  was  perceptibly  warmer. 

The  team  was  swinging  down  the  street  close  at 
hand,  the  hoof  beats  exactly  timed,  as  if  there  were  but 
one  instead  of  tw6  horses. 

" Well,  what’s  the  record  to-night  J.P  ” cried  Cressler, 
as  Jadwin  brought  the  bays  tO'  a stand  at  the  horse 
block.  Jadwin  did  not  respond  until  he  had  passed  the 
reins  to  the  coachman,  and  taking  the  stop  watch  from 
the  latter’s  hand,  he  drew  on  his  cigar,  and  held  the 
glowing  tip  to  the  dial. 


164 


The  Pit 


“ Eleven  minutes  and  a quarter,”  he  announced,  “ and 
we  had  to  wait  for  the  bridge  at  that.” 

He  came  up  the  steps,  fanning  himself  with  his  slouch 
hat,  and  dropped  into  the  chair  that  Landry  had  brought 
for  him. 

“ Upon  my  word,”  he  exclaimed,  gingerly  drawing  off 
his  driving  gloves,  “ I’ve  no  feeling  in  my  fingers  at  all. 
Those  fellows  will  pull  my  hands  clean  off  some  day.” 

But  he  was  hardly  settled  in  his  place  before  he  pro- 
posed to  send  the  coachman  home,  and  to  take  Laura 
for  a drive  towards  Lincoln  Park,  and  even  a little  way 
into  the  park  itself.  He  promised  to  have  her  back 
within  an  hour. 

“ I haven’t  any  hat,”  objected  Laura.  “ I should 
love  to  go,  but  I ran  over  here  to-night  without  any 
hat.” 

“ Well,  I wouldn’t  let  that  stand  in  my  way,  Laura,” 
protested  Mrs.  Cressler.  “ It  will  be  simply  heavenly  in 
the  Park  on  such  a night  as  this.” 

In  the  end  Laura  borrowed  Page’s  hat,  and  Jadwin 
took  her  away.  In  the  light  of  the  street  lamps  Mrs. 
Cressler  and  the  others  watched  them  drive  off,  sitting 
side  by  side  behind  the  fine  horses.  Jadwin,  broad- 
shouldered,  a fresh  cigar  in  his  teeth,  each  rein  in  a 
double  turn  about  his  large,  hard  hands;  Laura,  slim, 
erect,  pale,  her  black,  thick  hair  throwing  a tragic 
shadow  low  upon  her  forehead. 

“ A fine-looking  couple,”  commented  Mr.  Cressler  as 
they  disappeared. 

The  hoof  beats  died  away,  the  team  vanished.  Lan- 
dry Court,  who  stood  behind  the  others,  watching, 
turned  to  Mrs.  Cressler.  She  thought  she  detected  a 
little  unsteadiness  in  his  voice,  but  he  repeated  bravely : 

“ Yes,  yes,  that’s  right.  They  are  a fine,  a — a fine- 
looking  couple  together,  aren’t  they?  A fine-looking 
couple,  to  say  the  least.” 


A Story  of  Chicago  1 65 

A week  went  by,  then  two,  soon  May  had  passed. 
On  the  fifteenth  of  that  month  Laura’s  engagement  to 
Curtis  Jadwin  was  formally  announced.  The  day  of  the 
wedding  was  set  for  the  first  week  in  June. 

During  this  time  Laura  was  never  more  changeable, 
more  puzzling.  Her  vivacity  seemed  suddenly  to  have 
been  trebled,  but  it  was  invaded  frequently  by  strange 
reactions  and  perversities  that  drove  her  friends  and 
family  to  distraction. 

About  a week  after  her  talk  with  Mrs.  Cressler,  Laura 
broke  the  news  to  Page.  It  was  a Monday  morning. 
She  had  spent  the  time  since  breakfast  in  putting  her 
bureau  drawers  to  rights,  scattering  sachet  powders  in 
them,  then  leaving  them  open  so  as  to  perfume  the 
room.  At  last  she  came  into  the  front  “ upstairs  sitting- 
room,”  a heap  of  gloves,  stockings,  collarettes — the 
odds  and  ends  of  a wildly  disordered  wardrobe — in  her 
lap.  She  tumibled  all  these  upon  the  hearth  rug,  and  sat 
down  upon  the  floor  to  sort  them  carefully.  At  her 
little  desk  near  by.  Page,  in  a blue  and  white  shirt  waist 
and  golf  skirt,  her  slim  little  ankles  demurely  crossed, 
a cone  of  foolscap  over  her  forearm  to  guard  against 
ink  spots,  was  writing  in  her  journal.  This  was  an  in- 
terminable affair,  voluminous,  complex,  that  the  young 
girl  had  kept  ever  since  she  was  fifteen.  She  wrote 
in  it — she  hardly  knew  what — the  small  doings  of  the 
previous  day,  her  comings  and  goings,  accounts  of 
dances,  estimates  of  new  acquaintances.  But  besides 
this  she  filled  page  after  page  with  “ impressions,” 
“ outpourings,”  queer  little  speculations  about  her 
soul,  quotations  from  poets,  solemn  criticisms  of  new 
novels,  or  as  often  as  not  mere  purposeless  mean-, 
derings  of  words,  exclamatory,  rhapsodic — involved 
lucubrations  quite  meaningless  and  futile,  but  which 


The  Pit 


1 66 

at  times  she  re-read  with  vague  thrills  of  emotion  and 
mystery. 

On  this  occasion  Page  wrote  rapidly  and  steadily  for 
a few  moments  after  Laura’s  entrance  into  the  room. 
Then  she  paused,  her  eyes  growing  wide  and  thoughtful. 
She  wrote  another  line  and  paused  again.  Seated  on 
the  floor,  her  hands  full  of  gloves,  Laura  was  murmur- 
ing to  herself. 

“ Those  are  good  . . . and  those,  and  the  black 
suedes  make  eight.  . . . And  if  I could  only  find 
the  mate  to  this  white  one.  . . . Ah,  here  it  is. 
That  makes  nine,  nine  pair.” 

She  put  the  gloves  aside,  and  turning  to  the  stock- 
ings drew  one  of  the  silk  ones  over  her  arm,  and  spread 
out  her  fingers  in  the  foot. 

“ Oh,  dear,”  she  whispered,  “ there’s  a thread  started, 
and  now  it  will  simply  run  the  whole  length.  . . .” 

Page’s  scratching  paused  again. 

“ Laura,”  she  asked  dreamily,  “ Laura,  how  do  you 
spell  ‘ abysmal  ’?  ” 

“ With  a y,  honey,”  answered  Laura,  careful  not  to 
smile. 

“ Oh,  Laura,”  asked  Page,  “ do  you  ever  get  ver}", 
very  sad  without  knowing  why?  ” 

“ No,  indeed,”  answered  her  sister,  as  she  peeled  the 
stocking  from  her  arm.  “ When  I’m  sad  I know  just 
the  reason,  you  may  be  sure.” 

Page  sighed  again. 

“ Oh,  I don’t  know,”  she  murmured  indefinitely.  “ I 
lie  awake  at  night  sometimes  and  wish  I were  dead.” 

“ You  mustn’t  get  morbid,  honey,”  answered  her 
older  sister  calmly.  “ It  isn’t  natural  for  a young 
healthy  little  body  like  you  to  have  such  gloomy  no- 
Ai*  tions.” 

“ Last  night,”  continued  Page,  “ I got  up  out  of  bed 


A Story  of  Chicago  167 

and  sat  by  the  window  a long  time.  And  everything 
was  so  still  and  beautiful,  and  the  moonlight  and  all — ■ 
■ and  I said  right  out  loud  to  myself, 

" My  breath  to  Heaven  in  vapour  goes  — 

You  know  those  lines  from  Tennyson: 

“ My  breath  to  Heaven  in  vapour  goes. 

May  my  soul  follow  soon.” 

I I said  it  right  out  loud  just  like  that,  and  it  was  just  as 
i|i  though  something  in  me  had  spoken.  I got  my  jour- 
(j  nal  and  wrote  down,  ‘ Yet  in  a few  days,  and  thee,  the 
I all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more.’  It’s  from  Thana- 
|i  topsis,  you  know,  and  I thought  how  beautiful  it  would 
I be  to  leave  all  this  world,  and  soar  and  soar,  right  up  to 
; higher  planes  and  be  at  peace.  Laura,  dearest,  do  you 
I'  think  I ever  ought  to  marry  ? ” 

I “ Why  not,  girlie  ? Why  shouldn’t  you  marry.  Of 

|i  course  you’ll  marry  some  day,  if  you  find ” 

j “ I should  like  to  be  a nun,”  Page  interrupted,  shak- 
! ing  her  head,  mournfully. 

" “ if  you  find  the  man  who  loves  you,”  continued 

^ Laura,  “ and  whom  you — ^you  admire  and  respect — 
whom  you  love.  What  would  you  say,  honey,  if — if 
your  sister,  if  I should  be  married  some  of  these  days  ? ” 
Page  wheeled  about  in  her  chair, 
i “Oh,  Laura,  tell  me,”  she  cried,  “are  you  joking? 
Are  you  going  to  be  married?  Who  to?  I hadn’t  an 

idea,  but  I thought — I suspected ” 

“ Well,”  observed  Laura,  slowly,  “ I might  as  well 
; tell  you — some  one  will  if  I don’t — Mr.  Jadwin  wants  me 
I to  marry  him.” 

“And  what  did  you  say?  What  did  you  say?  Oh, 
j I’ll  never  tell.  Oh,  Laura,  tell  me  all  about  it.” 

' I “Well,  why  shouldn’t  I marry  him?  Yes — I prom- 
I ised.  I said  yes.  Why  shouldn’t  I?  He  loves  me, 
. i and  he  is  rich.  Isn’t  that  enough  ? ” 


The  Pit 


1 68 

“ Oh,  no.  It  isn’t.  You  must  love — ^you  do  love 
him?” 

“ I ? Love  ? Pooh ! ” cried  Laura.  “ Indeed  not. 
I love  nobody.” 

“ Oh,  Laura,”  protested  Page  earnestly.  “ Don’t, 
don’t  talk  that  way.  You  mustn’t.  It’s  wicked.” 

Laura  put  her  head  in  the  air. 

“J  wouldn’t  give  any  man  that  much  satisfaction.  I 
think  that  is  the  way  it  ought  to  be.  A man  ought  to 
love  a woman  more  than  she  loves  him.  It  ought  to 
be  enough  for  him  if  she  lets  him  give  her  everything 
she  wants  in  the  world.  He  ought  to  serve  her  like 
the  old  knights — give  up  his  whole  life  to  satisfy  some 
whim  of  hers ; and  it’s  her  part,  if  she  likes,  to  be  cold 
and  distant.  That’s  my  idea  of  love.” 

“Yes,  but  they  weren’t  cold  and  proud  to  their 
knights  after  they’d  promised  to  marry  them,”  urged 
Page.  “ They  loved  them  in  the  end,  and  married  them 
for  love.” 

“ Oh,  ‘ love  ’ ! ” mocked  Laura.  “ I don’t  believe  in 
love.  You  only  get  your  ideas  of  it  from  trashy  novels 
and  matinees.  Girlie,”  cried  Laura,  “ I am  going  to 
have  the  most  beautiful  gowns.  They’re  the  last  things 
that  Miss  Dearborn  shall  buy  for  herself,  and  ” — she 
fetched  a long  breath — “ I tell  you  they  are  going  to  be 
creations.” 

When  at  length  the  lunch  bell  rang  Laura  jumped  to 
her  feet,  adjusting  her  coiffure  with  thrusts  of  her  long, 
white  hands,  the  fingers  extended,  and  ran  from  the 
room  exclaiming  that  the  whole  morning  had  gone  and 
that  half  her  bureau  drawers  were  still  in  disarray. 

Page,  left  alone,  sat  for  a long  time  lost  in  thought, 
sighing  deeply  at  intervals,  then  at  last  she  wrote  in 
her  journal : 

“A  world  without  Love — oh,  what  an  awful  thing 


A Story  of  Chicago 


169 


that  would  be.  Oh,  love  is  so  beautiful — so  beautiful, 
that  it  makes  me  sad.  When  I think  of  love  in  all  its 
beauty  I am  sad,  sad  like  Romola  in  George  Eliot’s 
well-known  novel  of  the  same  name.” 

She  locked  up  her  journal  in  the  desk  drawer,  and 
wiped  her  pen  point  until  it  shone,  upon  a little  square 
of  chamois  skin.  Her  writing-desk  was  a miracle  of 
neatness,  everything  in  its  precise  place,  the  writing- 
paper  in  geometrical  parallelograms,  the  pen  tray  neatly 
polished. 

On  the  hearth  rug,  where  Laura  had  sat.  Page’s 
searching  eye  discovered  traces  of  her  occupancy — a 
glove  button,  a white  thread,  a hairpin.  Page  was  at 
great  pains  to  gather  them  up  carefully  and  drop  them 
into  the  waste  basket. 

“ Laura  is  so  fly-away,”  she  observed,  soberly. 

When  Laura  told  the  news  to  Aunt  Wess’  the  little 
old  lady  showed  no  surprise. 

“ Pve  been  expecting  it  of  late,”  she  remarked. 
“ Well,  Laura,  Mr.  Jadwin  is  a man  of  parts.  Though, 
to  tell  the  truth,  I thought  at  first  it  was  to  be  that  Mr. 
Corthell.  He  always  seemed  so  distinguished-looking 
and  elegant.  I suppose  now  that  that  young  Mr.  Court 
will  have  a regular  conniption  fit.” 

“ Oh,  Landry,”  murmured  Laura. 

“ Where  are  you  going  to  live,  Laura .?  Here  ? My 
word,  child,  don’t  be  afraid  to  tell  me  I must  pack. 
Why,  bless  you ” 

“ No,  no,”  exclaimed  Laura,  energetically,  “ you  are 
to  stay  right  here.  We’ll  talk  it  all  over  just  as  soon 
as  I know  more  decidedly  what  our  plans  are  to  be. 
No,  we  won’t  live  here.  Mr.  Jadwin  is  going  to  buy  a 
new  house — on  the  corner  of  North  Avenue  and  State 
Street.  It  faces  Lincoln  Park — you  know  it,  the  Farns- 
worth place.” 


170 


The  Pit 


“ Why,  my  word,  Laura,”  cried  Aunt  Wess’  amazed, 
“ why,  it’s  a palace ! Of  course  I know  it.  Why,  it 
takes  in  the  whole  block,  child,  and  there’s  a conser- 
vatory pretty  near  as  big  as  this  house.  Well  ! ” 

“ Yes,  I know,”  answered  Laura,  shaking  her  head. 
“ It  takes  my  breath  away  sometimes.  Mr.  Jadwin  tells 
me  there’s  an  art  gallery,  too,  with  an  organ  in  it — a 
full-sized  church  organ.  Think  of  it.  Isn’t  it  beautiful, 
beautiful?  Isn’t  it  a happiness ? And  I’ll  have  my  own 
carriage  and  coupe,  and  oh.  Aunt  Wess’,  a saddle  horse 
if  I want  to,  and  a box  at  the  opera,  and  a country 
place — that  is  to^be  bought  day  after  to-morrow.  It’s 
at  Geneva  Lake.  We’re  to  go  there  after  we  are  mar- 
ried, and  Mr.  Jadwin  has  bought  the  dearest,  love- 
liest, daintiest  little  steam  yacht.  He  showed  the  pho- 
tograph of  her  yesterday.  Oh,  honey,  honey]  It  all 
comes  over  me  sometimes.  [^Think,  only  a year  ago, 
less  than  that,  I was  vegetating  there  at  Barrington, 
among  those  wretched  old  blue-noses,  helping  Martha 
with  the  preserves  and  all  and  all  Hand  now” — she 
threw  her  arife  wide — “ I’m  just  going  to  live.  Think 
of  it,  that  beautiful  house,  and  servants,  and  carriages, 
and  paintings,  and,  oh,  honey,  how  I will  dress  the 
part ! ” 

“ But  I wouldn’t  think  of  those  things  so  much, 
Laura,”  answered  Aunt  Wess’,  rather  seriously. 
“ Child,  you  are  not  marrying  him.  for  carriages  and 
organs  and  saddle  horses  and  such.  You’re  marrying 
this  Mr.  Jadwin  because  you  love  him.  Aren’t  you?  ” 

“ Oh,”  cried  Laura,  “ I would  marry  a ragamuffin  if 
he  gave  me  all  these  things — gave  them  to  me  because 
he  loved  me.” 

Aunt  Wess’  stared.  “I  wouldn’t  talk  that  way, 
Laura,”  she  remarked.  “ Even  in  fun.  At  least  not 
before  Page.” 


A Story  of  Chicago  171 

That  same  evening  Jadwin  came  to  dinner  with  the 
two  sisters  and  their  aunt.  The  usual  evening  drive 
with  Laura  was  foregone  for  this  occasion,  Jadwin 
had  stayed  very  late  at  his  office,  and  from  there  was 
to  come  direct  to  the  Dearborns.  Besides  that,  Nip — 
the  trotters  were  named  Nip  and  Tuck — was  lame. 

As  early  as  four  o’clock  in  the  afternoon  Laura,  sud- 
denly moved  by  an  unreasoning  caprice,  began  to  pre- 
pare an  elaborate  toilet.  Not  since  the  opera  night 
had  she  given  so  much  attention  to  her  appearance. 
She  sent  out  for  an  extraordinary  quantity  of  flowers ; 
flowers  for  the  table,  flowers  for  Page  and  Aunt  Wess’, 
great  “ American  beauties  ” for  her  corsage,  and 
a huge  bunch  of  violets  for  the  bowl  in  the  library. 
She  insisted  that  Page  should  wear  her  smartest  frock, 
and  Mrs.  Wessels  her  grenadine  of  great  occasions. 
As  for  herself,  she  decided  upon  a dinner  gown  of 
black,  decollete,  with  sleeves  of  lace.  Her  hair  she 
dressed  higher  than  ever.  She  resolved  upon  wearing 
all  her  jewelry,  and  to  that  end  put  on  all  her  rings, 
secured  the  roses  in  place  with  an  amethyst  brooch, 
caught  up  the  little  locks  at  the  back  of  her  head  with 
a heart-shaped  pin  of  tiny  diamonds,  and  even  fastened 
the  ribbon  of  satin  that  girdled  her  waist,  with  a clasp 
of  flawed  turquoises. 

Until  five  in  the  afternoon  she  was  in  the  gayest  spir- 
its, and  went  down  to  the  dining-room  to  supervise  the 
setting  of  the  table,  singing  to  herself. 

Then,  almost  at  the  very  last,  when  Jadwin  might  be 
expected  at  any  moment,  her  humour  changed  again, 
and  again,  for  no  discoverable  reason. 

Page,  who  came  into  her  sister’s  room  after  dressing, 
to  ask  how  she  looked,  found  her  harassed  and  out  of 
sorts.  She  was  moody,  spoke  in  monosyllables,  and 
suddenly  declared  that  the  wearing  anxiety  of  house- 


172 


The  Pit 


keeping  was  driving  her  to  distraction.  Of  all  days  in 
the  week,  why  had  Jadwin  chosen  this  particular  one 
to  come  to  dinner.  Men  had  no  sense,  could  not  appre- 
ciate a woman’s  difficulties.  Oh,  she  would  be  glad 
when  the  evening  was  over. 

Then,  as  an  ultimate  disaster,  she  declared  that  she 
herself  looked  “ Dutchy.”  There  was  no  style,  no 
smartness  to  her  dress;  her  hair  was  arranged  unbecom- 
ingly; she  was  growing  thin,  peaked.  In  a word,  she 
looked  “ Dutchy.” 

All  at  once  she  flung  off  her  roses  and  dropped  into 
a chair. 

“ I will  not  go  down  to-night,”  she  cried.  “ You  and 
Aunt  Wess’  must  make  out  to  receive  Mr.  Jadwn.  I 
simply  will  not  see  any  one  to-night,  Mr.  Jadwin  least  of 
all.  Tell  him  I’m  gone  to  bed  sick — which  is  the  truth, 
I am  going  to  bed,  my  head  is  splitting.” 

All  persuasion,  entreaty,  or  cajolery  availed  nothing. 
Neither  Page  nor  Aunt  Wess’  could  shake  her  decision. 
At  last  Page  hazarded  a remonstrance  to  the  effect  that 
if  she  had  known  that  Laura  was  not  going  to  be  at 
dinner  she  would  not  have  taken  such  pains  with  her 
own  toilet. 

Promptly  thereat  Laura  lost  her  temper. 

“ I do  declare.  Page,”  she  exclaimed,  “ it  seems  to  me 
that  I get  very  little  thanks  for  ever  taking  any  interest 
in  your  personal  appearance.  There  is  not  a girl  in 
Chicago — no  millionaire’s  dai:ghter — has  an}’  prettier 
gowns  than  you.  I plan  and  plan,  and  go  to  the  most 
expensive  dressmakers  so  that  you  will  be  well  dressed, 
and  just  as  soon  as  I dare  to  express  the  desire  to  see 
you  appear  like  a gentlewoman,  I get  it  thrown  in  my 
face.  And  why  do  I do  it?  I’m  sure  I don’t  know. 
It’s  because  I’m  a poor  weak,  foolish,  indulgent  sister. 
I’ve  given  up  the  idea  of  ever  being  loved  by  you;  but 


173 


A Story  of  Chicago 

I do  insist  on  being  respected.”  Laura  rose,  stately, 
severe.  It  was  the  “ grand  manner  ” now,  unequivo- 
cally, unmistakably.  “ I do  insist  upon  being  respected,” 
she  repeated.  “ It  would  be  wrong  and  wicked  of  me 
to  allow  you  to  ignore  and  neglect  my  every  wish.  I’ll 
not  have  it.  I’ll  not  tolerate  it.” 

Page,  aroused,  indignant,  disdained  an  answer,  but 
drew  in  her  breath  and  held  it  hard,  her  lips  tight 
pressed. 

“ It’s  all  very  well  for  you  to  pose,  miss,”  Laura  went 
on;  “ to  pose  as  injured  innocence.  But  you  understand 
very  well  what  I mean.  If  you  don’t  love  me,  at  least  I 
shall  not  allow  you  to  flout  me — deliberately,  defiantly. 
And  it  does  seem  strange,”  she  added,  her  voice  begin- 
ning to  break,  “ that  when  we  two  are  all  alone  in  the 
world,  when  there’s  no  father  or  mother — and  you  are 
all  I have,  and  when  I love  you  as  I do,  that  there  might 
be  on  your  part — a little  consideration — when  I only 
want  to  be  loved  for  my  own  sake,  and  not — and  not — 
— when  I want  to  be,  oh,  loved — loved — loved ” 

The  two  sisters  were  in  each  other’s  arms  by  now,  and 
Page  was  crying  no  less  than  Laura. 

“ Oh,  little  sister,”  exclaimed  Laura,  “ I know  you  love 
me.  I know  you  do.  I didn’t  mean  to  say  that.  You 
must  forgive  me  and  be  very  kind  to  me  these  days.  I 
know  I’m  cross,  but  sometimes  these  days  I’m  so  ex- 
cited and  nervous  I can’t  help  it,  and  you  must  try  to 
bear  with  me.  Hark,  there’s  the  bell.” 

Listening,  they  heard  the  servant  open  the  door,  and 
then  the  sound  of  Jadwin’s  voice  and  the  clank  of  his 
cane  in  the^porcelaiif  cane  rack.  But  still  Laura  could 
not  be  persuaded  to  go  down.  No,  she  was  going  to 
bed;  she  had  neuralgia;  she  was  too  nervous  to  so  much 
as  think.  Her  gown  was  “ Dutchy.”  And  in  the  end, 
so  unshakable  was  her  resolve,  that  Page  and  her  aunt 


174 


The  Pit 


had  to  sit  through  the  dinner  with  Jadwin  and  entertain 
him  as  best  they  could. 

But  as  the  coffee  was  being  served  the  three  received 
a genuine  surprise.  Laura  appeared.  All  her  finery 
was  laid  off.  She  wore  the  simplest,  the  most  veritably 
monastic,  of  her  dresses,  plain  to  the  point  of  severity. 
Her  hands  were  bare  of  rings.  Not  a single  jewel,  not 
even  the  most  modest  ornament  relieved  her  sober  ap- 
pearance. She  was  very  quiet,  spoke  in  a low  voice, 
and  declared  she  had  come  down  only  to  drink  a glass 
of  mineral  water  and  then  to  return  at  once  to  her  room. 

As  a matter  of  fact,  she  did  nothing  of  the  kind.  The 
others  prevailed  upon  her  to  take  a cup  of  coffee.  Then 
the  dessert  was  recalled,  and,  forgetting  herself  in  an 
animated  discussion  with  Jadwin  as  to  the  name  of  their 
steam  yacht,  she  ate  two  plates  of  wine  jelly  before  she 
was  aware.  She  expressed  a doubt  as  to  whether  a little 
salad  would  do  her  good,  and  after  a vehement  exhorta- 
tion from  Jadwin,  allowed  herself  to  be  persuaded  into 
accepting  a sufficiently  generous  amount. 

“ I think  a classical  name  would  be  best  for  the  boat,” 
she  declared.  “ Something  like  ‘ Arethusa  ’ or  ‘ The 
Nereid.’  ” 

They  rose  from  the  table  and  passed  into  the  library. 
The  evening  was  sultry,  threatening  a rain-storm,  and 
they  preferred  not  to  sit  on  the  “ stoop.”  Q^adwn  lit 
a cigar ; he  still  wore  his  business  clothq^ — the  inevitable 
“ cutaway,”  white  waistcoat,  and  grey  trousers  of  the 
middle-aged  man  of  affairs. 

“ Oh,  call  her  the  ‘ Artemis,’  ” suggested  Page. 

“ Well  now,  to  tell  the  truth,”  observed  Jadwin, 
“ those  names  look  pretty  in  print;  but  somehow  I don’t 
fancy  them.  They’re  hard  to  read,  and  they  sound 
somehow  frilled  up  and  fancy.  But  if  you’re  satisfied, 
Laura ” 


175 


A Story  of  Chicago 

“ I knew  a young  man  once,”  began  Aunt  Wess’, 
“ who  had  a boat — that  was  when  we  lived  at  Kenwood 
and  Mr.  Wessels  belonged  to  the  ‘ Farragut  ’ — and  this 
young  man  had  a boat  he  called  ‘ Fanchon.’  He  got 
tipped  over  in  her  one  day,  he  and  the  three  daughters  of 
a lady  I knew  well,  and  two  days  afterward  they  found 
them  at  the  bottom  of  the  lake,  all  holding  on  to  each 
other;  and  they  fetched  them  up  just  like  that  in  one 
piece.  The  mother  of  those  girls  never  smiled  once 
since  that  day,  and  her  hair  turned  snow  white.  That 
was  in  ’seventy-nine.  I remember  it  perfectly.  The 
boat’s  name  was  ‘ Fanchon.’  ” 

“ But  that  was  a sail  boat.  Aunt  Wess’,”  objected 
Laura.  “ Ours  is  a steam  yacht.  There’s  all  the  dif- 
ference in  the  world.” 

“ I guess  they’re  all  pretty  risky,  those  pleasure 
boats,”  answered  Aunt  Wess’.  “ My  word,  you  couldn’t 
get  me  to  set  foot  on  one.” 

Jadwin  nodded  his  head  at  Laura,  his  eyes  twinkling. 

“Well,  we’ll  leave  ’em  all  at  home,  Laura,  when  we 
go,”  he  said. 

A little  later  one  of  Page’s  “ young  men  ” called  to 
see  her,  and  Page  took  him  off  into  the  drawing-room 
across  the  hall.  Mrs.  Wessels  seized  upon  the  occasion 
to  slip  away  unobserved,  and  Laura  and  Jadwin  were 
left  alone. 

“ Well,  my  girl,”  began  Jadwin,  “ how’s  the  day  gone 
with  you?  ” 

She  had  been  seated  at  the  centre  table,  by  the  drop 
light — the  only  light  in  the  room — turning  over  the 
leaves  of  “ The  Age  of  Fable,”  looking  for  graceful  and 
appropriate  names  for  the  yacht.  Jadwin  leaned  over 
her  and  put  his  hand  upon  her  shoulder. 

“ Oh,  about  the  same  as  usual,”  she  answered.  “ I 
told  Page  and  Aunt  Wess’  this  morning.” 


176 


The  Pit 


“ What  did  they  have  to  say?  ” Jadwin  laid  a soft 
but  clumsy  hand  upon  Laura’s  head,  adding,  “ Laura, 
you  have  the  most  wonderful  hair  I ever  saw.” 

“ Oh,  they  were  not  surprised.  Curtis*  don’t,  you  are 
mussing  me.”  She  moved  her  head  impatiently;  but* 
then  smiling,  as  if  to  mitigate  her  abruptness,  said,  “ It 
always  makes  me  nervous  to  have  my  hair  touched. 
No,  they  were  not  surprised;  unless  it  was  that  we  were 
to  be  married  so  soon.  They  were  surprised  at  that. 
You  know  I always  said  it  was  too  soon.  Why  not  put 
it  off,  Curtis — until  the  winter?” 

But  he  scouted  this,  and  then,  as  she  returned  to  the 
subject  again,  interrupted  her,  drawing  some  papers 
from  his  pocket. 

“ Oh,  by  the  way,”  he  said,  “ here  are  the  sketch  plans 
for  the  alterations  of  the  house  at  Geneva.  The  con- 
tractor brought  them  to  the  office  to-day.  He’s  made 
that  change  about  the  dining-room.” 

“ Oh,”  exclaimed  Laura,  interested  at  once,  “ you 
mean  about  building  on  the  conservatory?  ” 

“ Hum — no,”  answered  Jadwin  a little  slowly.  “ You 
see,  Laura,  the  difficulty  is  in  getting  the  thing  done 
this  summer.  When  we  go  up  there  we  want  every- 
thing finished,  don’t  we?  We  don’t  want  a lot  of  work- 
men clattering  around.  I thought  maybe  we  could  wait 
about  that  conservatory  till  next  year,  if  you  didn’t 
m.ind.” 

Laura  acquiesced  readily  enough,  but  Jadwin  could 
see  that  she  was  a little  disappointed.  Thoughtful,  he 
tugged  his  mustache  in  silence  for  a moment.  Perhaps, 
after  all,  it  could  be  arranged.  Then  an  idea  presented 
itself  to  him.  Smiling  a little  awkwardly,  he  said  : 

“ Laura,  I tell  you  what.  I’ll  make  a bargain  with 
you.” 

She  looked  up  as  he  hesitated.  Jadwin  sat  down  at 


A Story  of  Chicago  177 

the  table  opposite  her  and  leaned  forward  upon  his 
folded  arms. 

“ Do  you  know,”  he  began,  “ I happened  to  think — 
Well,  here’s  what  I mean,”  he  suddenly  declared  de- 
l|;isively.  “ Do  you  know,  Laura,  that  ever  since  we’ve 
been  engaged  you’ve  never — Well,  you’ve  never — 
never  kissed  me  of  your  own  accord.  It’s  foolish  to 
talk  that  way  now,  isn’t  it?  But,  by  George!  That 
would  be — ^would  be  such  a wonderful  thing  for  me.  I 
know,”  he  hastened  to  add,  “ I know,  Laura,  you  aren’t 
demonstrative.  I ought  not  to  expect,  maybe,  that 
you — Well,  maybe  it  isn’t  much.  But  I was  thinking 
a while  ago  that  there  wouldn’t  be  a sweeter  thing  im- 
aginable for  me  than  if  my  own  girl  would  come  up  to 
me  some  time — when  I wasn’t  thinking — and  of  her  own 
accord  put  her  two  arms  around  me  and  kiss  me. 
And — well,  I was  thinking  about  it,  and — ” He  hesi- 
tated again,  then  finished  abruptly  with,  “ And  it  oc- 
curred to  me  that  you  never  had.” 

Laura  made  no  answer,  but  smiled  rather  indefinitely, 
as  she  continued  to  search  the  pages  of  the  book,  her 
head  to  one  side. 

Jadwin  continued: 

“We’ll  call  it  a bargain.  Some  day — ^before  very 
long,  mind  you — ^you  are  going  to  kiss  me — that  way, 
understand,  of  your  own  accord,  when  I’m  not  thinking 
of  it;  and  I’ll  get  that  conservatory  in  for  you.  I’ll 
manage  it  somehow.  I’ll  start  these  fellows  at  it  to- 
morrow— twenty  of  ’em  if  it’s  necessary.  How  about 
it?  Is  it  a bargain?  Some  day  before  long.  What 
do  you  say?  ” 

Laura  hesitated,  singularly  embarrassed,  unable  to 
find  the  right  words. 

“ Is  it  a bargain?  ” persisted  Jadwin. 

“ Oh,  if  you  put  it  that  way,”  she  murmured,  “ I sup- 
pose so — ^yes.” 


178 


The  Pit 


“ You  won’t  forget,  because  I shan’t  speak  about  it 
again.  Promise  you  won’t  forget.” 

“No,  I won’t  forget.  Why  not  call  her  the 
'Thetis’?” 

“ I was  going  to  suggest  the  ‘ Dart,’  or  the  ‘ Swallow,^ 
or  the  ‘ Arrow.’  Something  like  that — to  give  a'  notion 
of  speed.” 

“ No.  I like  the  ‘ Thetis  ’ best.” 

“ That  settles  it  then.  She’s  your  steam  yacht, 
Laura.” 

Later  on,  when  Jadwin  was  preparing  to  depart,  they 
stood  for  a moment  in  the  hallway,  while  he  drew  on 
his  gloves  and  took  a fresh  cigar  from  his  case. 

“ I’ll  call  for  you  here  at  about  ten,”  he  said.  “ Will 
that  do?” 

He  spoke  of  the  following  morning.  He  had  planned 
to  take  Page,  Mrs.  Wessels,  and  Laura  on  a day’s 
excursion  to  Geneva  Lake  to  see  how  work  was  pro- 
gressing on  the  country  house.  Jadwin  had  set  his  mind 
upon  passing  the  summer  months  after  the  marriage  at 
the  lake,  and  as  the  early  date  of  the  ceremony  made  it 
impossible  to  erect  a new  building,  he  had  bought,  and 
was  now  causing  to  be  remodelled,  an  old  but  very  well 
constructed  house  just  outside  of  the  town  and  once 
occupied  by  a local  magistrate  The  grounds  were 
ample,  filled  with  shade  and  fruit  trees,  and  fronted  upon 
the  lake.  Laura  had  never  seen  her  future  country 
home.  But  for  the  past  month  Jadwin  had  had  a small 
army  of  workmen  and  mechanics  busy  about  the  place, 
and  had  managed  to  galvanise  the  contractors  with 
some  of  his  own  energy  and  persistence.  There  w'as 
every  probability  that  the  house  and  grounds  would  be 
finished  in  time. 

“ Very  well,”  said  Laura,”  in  answer  to  his  question, 
“ at  ten  we’ll  be  ready.  Good-night.”  She  held  out  her 


179 


A Story  of  Chicago 

hand.  But  Jadwin  put  it  quickly  aside,  and  took  her 
swiftly  and  strongly  into  his  arms,  and  turning  her  face 
to  his,  kissed  her  cheek  again  and  again. 

Laura  submitted,  protesting: 

• “ Curtis ! Such  foolishness.  Oh,  dear ; can’t  you 
love  me  without  crumpling  me  so  ? Curtis ! Please. 
You  are  so  rough  with  me,  dear.” 

She  pulled  away  from  him,  and  looked  up  into  his 
face,  surprised  to  find  it  suddenly  flushed ; his  eyes  were 
flashing. 

“ My  God,”  he  murmured,  with  a quick  intake  of 
breath,  “ my  God,  how  I love  you,  my  girl ! Just  the 
touch  of  your  hand,  the  smell  of  your  hair.  Oh,  sweet- 
heart. It  is  wonderful ! Wonderful!”  Then  abruptly 
he  was  master  of  himself  again. 

“ Good-night,”  he  said.  “ Good-night.  God  bless 
you,”  and  with  the  words  was  gone. 

They  were  married  on  the  last  day  of  June  of  that 
summer  at  eleven  o’clock  in  the  morning  in  the  church 
opposite  Laura’s  house — the  Episcopalian  church  of 
which  she  was  a member.  The  wedding  was  very  quiet. 
Only  the  Cresslers,  Miss  Gretry,  Page,  and  Aunt  Wess’ 
were  present.  Immediately  afterward  the  couple  were 
to  take  the  train  for  Geneva  Lake — ^Jadwin  having 
chartered  a car  for  the  occasion. 

But  the  weather  on  the  wedding  day  was  abominable. 
A warm  drizzle,  which  had  set  in  early  in  the  morning, 
developed  by  eleven  o’clock  into  a steady  downpour, 
accompanied  by  sullen  grumblings  of  very  distant 
thunder. 

About  an  hour  before  the  appointed  time  Laura  in- 
sisted that  her  aunt  and  sister  should  leave  her.  She 
would  allow  only  Mrs.  Cressler  to  help  her.  The  time 
passed.  The  rain  continued  to  fall.  At  last  it  wanted 
but  fifteen  minutes  to  eleven. 


i8o 


The  Pit 


Page  and  Aunt  Wess’,  who  presented  themselves  at 
the  church  in  advance  of  the  others,  found  the  interior 
cool,  dark,  and  damp.  They  sat  down  in  a front  pew, 
talking  in  whispers,  looking  about  them.  Druggeting 
shrouded  the  reader’s  stand,  the  baptismal  font,  and* 
bishop’s  chair.  Every  footfall  and  every  minute  sound 
echoed  noisily  from  the  dark  vaulting  of  the  nave  and 
chancel.  The  janitor  or  sexton,  a severe  old  fellow, 
who  wore  a skull  cap  and  loose  slippers,  was  making  a 
great  to-do  with  a pile  of  pew  cushions  in  a remote 
corner.  The  rain  drummed  with  incessant  monotony 
upon  the  slates  overhead,  and  upon  the  stained  win- 
dows on  either  hand.  Page,  who  attended  the  church 
regularly  every  Sunday  morning,  now  found  it  all 
strangely  unfamiliar.  The  saints  in  the  windows 
looked  odd  and  unecclesiastical ; the  whole  suggestion 
of  the  place  was  uncanonical.  In  the  organ  loft  a tuner 
was  at  work  upon  the  organ,  and  from  time  to  time 
the  distant  mumbling  of  the  thunder  was  mingled  with 
a sonorous,  prolonged  note  from  the  pipes. 

“ My  word,  how  it  is  raining,”  whispered  Aunt  Wess’, 
as  the  pour  upon  the  roof  suddenly  swelled  in  volume. 

But  Page  had  taken  a prayer  book  from  the  rack, 
and  kneeling  upon  a hassock  was  repeating  the  Litany 
to  herself. 

It  annoyed  Aunt  Wess*.  Excited,  aroused,  the  little 
old  lady  was  never  miore  in  need  of  a listener.  Would 
Page  never  be  through? 

“ And  Laura’s  new  frock,”  she  whispered,  vaguely. 
“ It’s  going  to  be  ruined.” 

Page,  her  lips  forming  the  words,  “ Good  Lord  de- 
liver us,”  fixed  her  aunt  with  a reproving  glance.  To 
pass  the  time  Aunt  Wess’  began  counting  the  pews, 
missing  a number  here  and  there,  confusing  herself, 
always  obliged  to  begin  over  again.  From  the  direc- 


A Story  of  Chicago 


i8i 


tion  of  the  vestry  room  came  the  sound  of  a closing 
door.  Then  all  fell  silent  again.  Even  the  shuffling 
of  the  janitor  ceased  for  an  instant. 

“Isn’t  it  still?”  murmured  Aunt  Wess’,  her  head  in 
the  air.  “ I wonder  if  that  was  them.  I heard  a door 
slam.  They  tell  me  that  the  rector  has  been  married 
three  times.”  Page,  unheeding  and  demure,  turned  a 
leaf,  and  began  with  “ All  those  who  travel  by  land  or 
water.”  Mr.  Cressler  and  young  Miss  Gretry  appeared. 
They  took  their  seats  behind  Page  and  Aunt  Wess’,  and 
the  party  exchanged  greetings  in  low  voices.  Page  re- 
luctantly laid  down  her  prayer  book. 

“ Laura  will  be  over  soon,”  whispered  Mr.  Cressler. 
“ Carrie  is  with  her.  I’m  going  into  the  vestry  room. 
J.  has  just  come.”  He  took  himself  off,  walking  upon 
his  tiptoes. 

Aunt  Wess’  turned  to  Page,  repeating; 

“ Do  you  know  they  say  this  rector  has  been  married 
three  times  ? ” 

But  Page  was  once  more  deep  in  her  prayer  book, 
so  the  little  old  lady  addressed  her  remark  to  the  Gretry 
girl. 

This  other,  however,  her  lips  tightly  compressed, 
made  a despairing  gesture  with  her  hand,  and  at  length 
managed  to  say: 

“ Can’t  talk.” 

“Why,  heavens,  child,  whatever  is  the  matter?” 

“ Makes  them  worse — ^when  I open  my  mouth — I’ve 
got  the  hiccoughs.” 

Aunt  Wess’  flounced  back  in  her  seat,  exasperated, 
out  of  sorts. 

“ Well,  my  word,”  she  murmured  to  herself,  “ I never 
saw  such  girls.” 

“ Preserve  to  our  use  the  kindly  fruits  of  the  earth,” 
continued  Page. 


i82 


The  Pit 


Isabel  Gretry’s  hiccoughs  drove  Aunt  Wess’  into 
“ the  fidgets.”  They  “ got  on  her  nerves.”  What  with 
them  and  Page’s  uninterrupted  murmur,  she  was  at 
length  obliged  to  sit  in  the  far  end  of  the  pew,  and  just 
as  she  had  settled  herself  a second  lime  the  door  of  the 
vestry  room  opened  and  the  wedding  party  came  out ; 
first  Mrs.  Cressler,  then  Laura,  then  Jadwin  and  Cress- 
ler,  and  then,  robed  in  billowing  white,  venerable,  his 
prayer  book  in  his  hand,  the  bishop  of  the  diocese  him- 
self. Last  of  all  came  the  clerk,  osseous,  perfumed,  a 
gardenia  in  the  lapel  of  his  frock  coat,  terribly  excited, 
and  hurrying  about  on  tiptoe,  saying  “ Sh ! Sh  ! ” as  a 
matter  of  principle. 

Jadwin  wore  a new  frock  coat  and  a resplendent 
Ascot  scarf,  which  Mr.  Cressler  had  bought  for  him, 
and  Page  knew  at  a glance  that  he  was  agitated  be- 
yond all  measure,  and  was  keeping  himself  in  hand 
only  by  a tremendous  effort.  She  could  guess  that  his 
teeth  were  clenched.  He  stood  by  Cressler’s  side,  his 
head  bent  forward,  his  hands — the  fingers  incessantly 
twisting  and  untwisting — clasped  behind  his  back. 
Never  for  once  did  his  eyes  leave  Laura’s  face. 

She  herself  was  absolutely  calm,  only  a little  paler  per- 
haps than  usual ; but  never  more  beautiful,  never  more 
charming.  Abandoning  for  this  once  her  accustomed 
black,  she  wore  a tan  travelling  dress,  tailor  made,  very 
smart,  a picture  hat  with  heavy  plumes  set  off  with  a 
clasp  of  rhinestones,  while  into  her  belt  was  thrust  a 
great  bunch  of  violets.  She  drew  off  her  gloves  and 
handed  them  to  Mrs.  Cressler.  At  the  same  moment 
Page  began  to  cry  softly  to  herself. 

“ There’s  the  last  of  Laura,”  she  whimpered. 
“ There’s  the  last  of  my  dear  sister  for  me.” 

Aunt  Wess’  fixed  her  with  a distressful  gaze.  She 
sniffed  once  or  twice,  and  then  began  fumbling  in  hef 
reticule  for  her  handkerchief. 


A Story  of  Chicago 


183 


“ If  only  her  dear  father  were  here,”  she  whispered 
huskily.  “ And  to  think  that’s  the  same  little  girl  I 
used  to  rap  on  the  head  with  my  thimble  for  annoying 
the  cat ! Oh,  if  Jonas  could  be  here  this  day.”  * 

“ She’ll  never  Be  the  same  to  me  after  now,”  sobbed 
Page,  and  as  she  spoke  the  Gretry  girl,  hypnotised  with 
emotion  and  taken  all  unawares,  gave  vent  to  a shrill 
hiccough,  a veritable  yelp,  that  woke  an  explosive  echo 
in  every  corner  of  the  building. 

Page  could  not  restrain  a giggle,  and  the  giggle 
strangled  with  the  sobs  in  her  throat,  so  that  the  little 
girl  was  not  far  from  hysterics. 

And  just  then  a sonorous  voice,  magnificent,  oro- 
tund, began  suddenly  from  the  chancel  with  the  words : 

“ Dearly  beloved,  we  are  gathered  together  here  in 
the  sight  of  God,  and  in  the  face  of  this  company  to 
join  together  this  Man  and  this  Woman  in  holy  matri- 
mony.” 

Promptly  a spirit  of  reverence,  not  to  say  solemnity, 
pervaded  the  entire  surroundings.  The  building  no 
longer  appeared  secular,  unecclesiastical.  Not  in  the 
midst  of  all  the  pomp  and  ceremonial  of  the  Easter 
service  had  the  chancel  and  high  altar  disengaged  a 
more  compelling  influence.  All  other  intrusive  noises 
died  away;  the  organ  was  hushed;  the  fussy  janitor 
was  nowhere  in  sight;  the  outside  clamour  of  the  city 
seemed  dwindling  to  the  faintest,  most  distant  vibra- 
tion ; the  whole  world  was  suddenly  removed,  while  the 
great  moment  in  the  lives  of  the  Man  and  the  Woman 
began. 

Page  held  her  breath;  the  intensity  of  the  situation 
seemed  to  her,  almost  physically,  straining  tighter  and 
tighter  with  every  passing  instant.  She  was  awed, 
stricken;  and  Laura  appeared  to  her  to  be  all  at  once 
a woman  transfigured,  semi-angelic,  unknowable,  ex- 


184 


The  Pit 


alted.  The  solemnity  of  those  prolonged,  canorous 
syllables : “ I require  and  charge  you  both,  as  ye  shall 
answer  at  the  dreadful  day  of  judgment, when  the  secrets 
of  hearts  shall  be  disclosed,”  weighed  down  upon  her 
spirits  with  an  almost  intolerable  majesty.  Oh,  it  was 
all  very  well  to  speak  lightly  of  marriage,  to  consider  it 
in  a vein  of  mirth.  It  was  a pretty  solemn  affair,  after 
all;  and  she  herself.  Page  Dearborn,  was  a wicked, 
wicked  girl,  full  of  sins,  full  of  deceits  and  frivolities, 
meriting  of  punishment — on  “ that  dreadful  day  of 
judgment.”  Only  last  week  she  had  deceived  Aunt 
Wess’  in  the  matter  of  one  of  her  “young  men.”  It 
was  time  she  stopped.  To-day  would  mark  a change. 
Henceforward,  she  resolved,  she  would  lead  a new  life. 

“ God  the  Father,  God  the  Son,  and  God  the  Holy 
Ghost  . . .” 

To  Page’s  mind  the  venerable  bishop’s  voice  was  fill- 
ing all  the  church,  as  on  the  day  of  Pentecost,  when  the 
apostles  received  the  Holy  Ghost,  the  building  was 
filled  with  a “ mighty  rushing  wind.” 

She  knelt  down  again,  but  could  not  bring  herself 
to  close  her  eyes  completely.  From  under  her  lids  she 
still  watched  her  sister  and  Jadwin.  How  Laura  must 
be  feeling  now!  She  was,  in  fact,  very  pale.  There 
was  emotion  in  Jadwin’s  eyes.  Page  could  see  them 
plainly.  It  seemed  beautiful  that  even  he,  the  strong, 
modern  man-of-affairs,  should  be  so  moved.  How  he 
must  love  Laura.  He  was  fine,  he  was  noble ; and  all 
at  once  this  fineness  and  nobility  of  his  so  affected  her 
that  she  began  to  cry  again.  Then  suddenly  came  the 
words : 

“ . . . That  in  the  world  to  come  ye  may  have 

life  everlasting.  Amen.” 

There  was  a moment’s  silence,  then  the  group  about 
the  altar  rail  broke  up. 


i85 


A Storx''  of  Chica??o 

“ Come,”  said  Aunt  Wess’,  getting  to  her  feet,  “ it’s 
all  over.  Page.  Come,  and  kiss  your  sister — Mrs.  Jad- 
win.” 

In  the  vestry  room  Laura  stood  for  a moment,  while 
one  after  another  of  the  wedding  party — even  Mr. 
Cressler — kissed  her.  When  Page’s  turn  came,  the  two 
sisters  held  each  other  in  a close  embrace  a long  mo- 
ment, but  Laura’s  eyes  were  always  dry.  Of  all  pres- 
ent she  was  the  least  excited. 

“ Here’s  something,”  vociferated  the  ubiquitous  clerk, 
pushing  his  way  forward.  “ It  was  on  the  table  when 
we  came  out  just  now.  The  sexton  says  a messenger 
boy  brought  it.  It’s  for  Mrs.  Jadwin.” 

He  handed  her  a large  box.  Laura  opened  it.  In- 
side was  a great  sheaf  of  Jacqueminot  roses  and  a card, 
on  which  was  written : 

“ May  that  same  happiness  which  you  have  always 
inspired  in  the  lives  and  memories  of  all  who  know  you 
be  with  you  always. 

“Yrs.  S.  C.” 

The  party,  emerging  from  the  church,  hurried  across 
the  street  to  the  Dearborns’  home,  where  Laura  and 
Jadwin  were  to  get  their  valises  and  hand  bags.  Jad- 
win’s  carriage  was  already  at  the  door. 

They  all  assembled  in  the  parlor,  every  one  talking 
at  once,  while  the  servants,  bare-headed,  carried  the 
baggage  down  to  the  carriage. 

“ Oh,  wait — wait  a minute.  I’d  forgotten  something,” 
cried  Laura. 

“ What  is  it?  Here,  I’ll  get  it  for  you,”  cried  Jadwin 
and  Cressler  as  she  started  toward  the  door.  But  she 
waved  them  oif,  crying : 

“ No,  no.  It’s  nothing.  You  wouldn’t  know  where 
to  look.” 


i86 


The  Pit 


Alone  she  ran  up  the  stairs,  and  gained  the  second 
story ; then  paused  a moment  on  the  landing  to  get  her 
breath  and  to  listen.  The  rooms  near  by  were  quiet, 
deserted.  From  below  she  could  hear  the  voices  of  the 
others — their  laughter  and  gaiety.  She  turned  about, 
and  went  from  room  to  room,  looking  long  into  each ; 
first  Aunt  Wess’s  bedroom,  then  Page’s,  then  the  “ front 
sitting-room,”  then,  lastly,  her  own  room.  It  was  still 
in  the  disorder  caused  by  that  eventful  morning;  many 
of  the  ornaments — her  own  cherished  knick-knacks — 
were  gone,  packed  and  shipped  to  her  new  home  the 
day  before.  Her  writing-desk  and  bureau  were  bare. 
On  the  backs  of  chairs,  and  across  the  footboard  of  the 
bed,  were  the  odds  and  ends  of  dress  she  was  never 
to  wear  again. 

For  a long  time  Laura  stood  looking  silently  at  the 
empty  room.  Here  she  had  lived  the  happiest  period 
of  her  life ; not  an  object  there,  however  small,  that 
was  not  hallowed  by  association.  Now  she  was  leaving 
it  forever.  Now  the  new  life,  the  Untried,  was  to  be- 
gin. Forever  the  old  days,  the  old  life  were  gone. 
Girlhood  was  gone ; the  Laura  Dearborn  that  only  last 
night  had  pressed  the  pillows  of  that  bed,  where  was 
she  now?  Where  was  the  little  black-haired  girl  of 
Barrington? 

And  what  was  this  new  life  to  which  she  was  going 
forth,  under  these  leaden  skies,  under  this  warm  mist 
of  rain?  The  tears — at  last — were  in  her  eyes,  and  the 
sob  in  her  throat,  and  she  found  herself,  as  she  leaned 
an  arm  upon  the  lintel  of  the  door,  whispering : 

“ Good-by.  Good-by.  Good-by.” 

Then  suddenly  Laura,  reckless  of  her  wedding  finery, 
forgetful  of  trivialities,  crossed  the  room  and  knelt 
down  at  the  side  of  the  bed.  Her  head  in  her  folded 
arms,  she  prayed — prayed  in  the  little  unstudied  words 


A Story  of  Chicago  187 

of  her  childhood,  prayed  that  God  would  take  care  of 
her  and  make  her  a good  girl;  prayed  that  she  might 
be  happy;  prayed  to  God  to  help  her  in  the  new  life, 
and  that  she  should  be  a good  and  loyal  wife. 

And  then  as  she  knelt  there,  all  at  once  she  felt  an 
arm,  strong,  heavy  even,  laid  upon  her.  She  raised 
her  head  and  looked — for  the  first  time — direct  into 
her  husband’s  eyes. 

“ I knew — ” began  Jadwin.  “ I thought — Dear,  I 
understand,  I understand.” 

He  said  no  more  than  that.  But  suddenly  Laura  A 
knew  that  he,  Jadwin,  her  husband,  did  “ understand,” 
and  she  discovered,  too,  in  that  moment  just  what  it 
meant  to  be  completely,  thoroughly  understood — under- 
stood without  chance  of  misapprehension,  without 
shadow  of  doubt ; understood  to  her  heart’s  heart. 
And  with  the  knowledge  a new  feeling  was  born  within 
her.  No  woman,  not  her  dearest  friend ; not  even  Page 
had  ever  seemed  so  close  to  her  as  did  her  husband  now. 
How  could  she  be  unhappy  henceforward?  The  future 
was  already  brightening. 

Suddenly  she  threw  both  arms  around  his  neck,  and 
drawing  his  face  down  to  her,  kissed  him  again  and 
again,  and  pressed  her  wet  cheek  to  his — tear-stained 
like  her  own. 

“ It’s  going  to  be  all  right,  dear,”  he  said,  as  she  stood 
from  him,  though  still  holding  his  hand.  “ It’s  going  to 
be  all  right.” 

“ Yes,  yes,  all  right,  all  right,”  she  assented.  “ I 
never  seemed  to  realise  it  till  this  minute.  From  the 
first  I must  have  loved  you  without  knowing  it.  And 
I’ve  been  cold  and  hard  to  you,  and  now  I’m  sorry, 
sorry.  You  were  wrong,  remember  that  time  in  the 
library,  when  you  said  I was  undemonstrative.  I’m  not. 

I love  you  dearly,  dearly,  and  never  for  once,  for  one 


l8g  the  Pit 

little  moment,  am  I ever  going  to  allow  you  to  forget 
it.” 

Suddenly,  as  Jadwin  recalled  the  incident  of  which  she 
spoke,  an  idea  occurred  to  him. 

“Oh,  our  bargain — remember?  You  didn’t  forget, 
after  all.” 

“ I did.  I did,”  she  cried.  “ I did  forget  it.  That’s 
the  very  sweetest  thing  about  it.” 


VI 


The  months  passed.  Soon  three  years  had  gone  by, 
and  the  third  winter  since  the  ceremony  in  St.  James’ 
Church  drew  to  its  close. 

Since  that  day  when — acting  upon  the  foreknowledge 
of  the  French  import  duty — ^Jadwin  had  sold  his  million 
of  bushels  short,  the  price  of  wheat  had  been  steadily 
going  down.  From  ninety-three  and  ninety-four  it  had 
dropped  to  the  eighties.  Heavy  crops  the  world  over 
had  helped  the  decline.  No  one  was  willing  to  buy 
wheat.  The  Bear  leaders  were  strong,  unassailable. 
Lower  and  lower  sagged  the  price ; now  it  was  seventy- 
five,  now  seventy-two.  From  all  parts  of  the  country  in 
solid,  waveless  tides  wheat — the  mass  of  it  incessantly 
crushing  down  the  price — came  rolling  in  upon  Chicago 
and  the  Board  of  Trade  Pit.  All  over  the  world  the 
farmers  saw  season  after  season  of  good  crops.  They 
were  good  in  the  Argentine  Republic,  and  on  the  Rus- 
sian steppes.  In  India,  on  the  little  farms  of  Burmah,  of 
Mysore,  and  of  Sind  the  grain,  year  after  year,  headed 
out  fat,  heavy,  and  well-favoured.  In  the  great  San 
Joaquin  valley  of  California  the  ranches  were  one  welter 
of  fertility.  All  over  the  United  States,  from  the  Dako- 
tas, from  Nebraska,  Iowa,  Kansas,  and  Illinois,  from  all 
the  wheat  belt  came  steadily  the  reports  of  good  crops. 

But  at  the  same  time  the  low  price  of  grain  kept  the  ^ 
farmers  poor.  New  mortgages  were  added  to  farms 
already  heavily  “ papered  ” ; even  the  crops  were  mort- 
gaged in  advance.  No  new  farm  implements  were 
bought.  Throughout  the  farming  communities  of  the 
“ Middle  West  ” there  were  no  longer  purchases  of  bug- 


190 


The  Pit 


gies  and  parlour  organs.  Somewhere  in  other  remoter 
corners  of  the  world  the  cheap  wheat,  that  meant  cheap 
bread,  made  living  easy  and  induced  prosperity,  but  in 
the  United  States  the  poverty  of  the  farmer  worked  up- 
ward through  the  cogs  and  wheels  of  the  whole  great 
machine  of  business.  It  was  as  though  a lubricant  had 
dried  up.  The  cogs  and  wheels  worked  slowly  and 
with  dislocations.  Things  were  a little  out  of  joint. 
Wall  Street  stocks  were  down.  In  a word,  “ times  were 
bad.”  Thus  for  three  years.  It  became  a proverb  on 
the  Chicago  Board  of  Trade  that  the  quickest  way  to 
make  money  was  to  sell  wheat  short.  One  could  with 
almost  absolute  certainty  be  sure  of  buying  cheaper 
than  one  had  sold.  And  that  peculiar,  indefinite  thing 
known — among  the  most  unsentimental  men  in  the 
world — as  “ sentiment  ” prevailed  more  and  more 
strongly  in  favour  of  low  prices.  “ The  ‘ sentiment,’  ” 
said  the  market  reports,  “ was  bearish  ” ; and  the 
traders,  speculators,  eighth-chasers,  scalpers,  brokers, 
bucket-shop  men,  and  the  like — all  the  world  of  La 
Salle  Street — had  become  so  accustomed  to  these 
“ Bear  conditions,”  that  it  was  hard  to  believe  that  they 
would  not  continue  indefinitely. 

^adwin,  inevitably,  had  been  again  drawn  into  the 
troubled  waters  of  the  Pit.  Always,  as  from  the  very 
first,  a Bear,  he  had  once  more  raided  the  market,  and 
had  once  more  been  succesful.  Two  months  after  this 
raid  he  and  Gretry  planned  still  another  coup,  a deal  of 
greater  magnitude  than  any  they  had  previously  haz- 
arded. Laura,  who  knew'  very  little  of  her  husband’s 
affairs — to  whicH  he  seldom  alluded — saw'  by  the  daily 
papers  that  at  one  stage  of  the  affair  the  “ deal  ” 
trembled  to  its  base. 

But  Jadwin  w'as  by  now  “ blooded  to  the  game.”  He 
no  longer  needed  Gretry’s  urging  to  spur  him.  He  had 


A Story  of  Chicago 


191 


developed  into  a strategist,  bold,  of  inconceivable  ef- 
frontery, delighting  in  the  shock  of  battle,  never  more 
jovial,  more  daring  than  when  under  stress  of  the  most 
merciless  attack.  On  this  occasion,  when  the  “ other 
side  ” resorted  to  the  usual  tactics  to  drive  him  from 
the  Pit,  he  led  on  his  enemies  to  make  one  single  false 
step.  Instantly — disregarding  Gretry’s  entreaties  as 
to  caution — ^Jadwin  had  brought  the  vast  bulk  of  his 
entire  fortune  to  bear,  in  the  manner  of  a general  con- 
centrating his  heavy  artillery,  and  crushed  the  oppo- 
sition with  appalling  swiftnes^ 

He  issued  from  the  grapple  triumphantly,  and  it  was 
not  till  long  afterward  that  Laura  knew  how  near,  for  a 
few  hours,  he  had  been  to  defeat. 

And  again  the  price  of  wheat  declined.  In  the  first 
week  in  April,  at  the  end  of  the  third  winter  of  Jadwin’s 
married  life.  May  wheat  was  selling  on  the  floor  of  the 
Chicago  Board  of  Trade  at  sixty-four,  the  July  option  at 
sixty-five,  the  September  at  sixty-six  and  an  eighth. 
During  February  of  the  same  year  Jadv/in  had  sold 
short  five  hundred  thousand  bushels  of  May.  He  be- 
lieved with  Gretry  and  with  the  majority  of  the  profes- 
sional traders  that  the  price  would  go  to  sixty. 

March  passed  without  any  further  decline.  All 
through  this  month  and  through  the  first  days  of  April 
Jadwin  was  unusually  thoughtful.  His  short  wheat 
gave  him  no  concern,  ^^e  was  now  so  rich  that  a mere 
half-million  bushels  was  not  a matter  for  anxjety.  It 
was  the  “ situation  ” that  arrested  his  attention.  ^ 

L^n  some  indefinable  way,  warned  by  that  blessed 
sixth  sense  that  had  made  him  the  successful  speculator 
he  was,  he  felt  that  somewhere,  at  some  time  during  the 
course  of  the  winter,  a change  had  quietly,  gradually 
come  about,  that  it  was  even  then  operating.  The 
conditions  that  had  prevailed  so  consistently  for  three 


192 


The  Pit 


years,  were  they  now  to  be  shifted  a little  ? He  did  not 
know,  he  could  not  say.  But  in  the  plexus  of  financial 
affairs  in  which  he  moved  and  lived  he  felt — a difference^ 

For  one  thing  “ times  ” were  better,  business  was  bet- 
ter. He  could  not  fail  to  see  that  trade  was  picking 
up.  In  dry  goods,  in  hardware,  in  manufactures  there 
seemed  to  be  a different  spirit,  and  he  could  imagine 
that  it  was  a spirit  of  optimism.  There,  in  that  great 
city  where  the  Heart  of  the  Nation  beat,  where  the 
diseases  of  the  times,  or  the  times’  healthful  activities 
were  instantly  reflected,  Jadwin  sensed  a more  rapid, 
an  easier,  more  untroubled  run  of  life  blood.  All 
through  the  Body  of  Things,  money,  the  vital  fluid, 
seemed  to  be  flowing  more  easily.  People  seemed  richer, 
the  banks  were  lending  more,  securities  seemed  stable, 
solid.  In  New  York,  stocks  were  booming.  Men  were 
making  money — were  making  it,  spending  it,  lending  it, 
exchanging  it.  Instead  of  being  congested  in  vaults, 
safes,  and  cash  boxes,  tight,  hard,  congealed,  it  was 
loosening,  and,  as  it  were,  liquefying,  so  that  it  spread 
and  spread  and  permeated  the  entire  community.  The 
People  had  money.  They  were  willing  to  take  chances. 

So  much  for  the  financial  conditions. 

^The  spring  had  been  backward,  cold,  bitter,  inhospit- 
able, and  Jadwin  began  to  suspect  that  the  wheat  crop 
of  his  native  country,  that  for  so  long  had  been  gen- 
erous, and  of  excellent  quality,  was  now  to  prove — it 
seemed  quite  possible — scant  and  of  poor  condition.  He 
began  to  watch  the  weather,  and  to  keep  an  eye  upon 
the  reports  from  the  little  county  seats  and  “ centres  ” 
in  the  winter  Vv^heat  States.  These,  in  part,  seemed  to 
confirm  his  suspicions. 

From  Keokuk,  in  Iowa,  came  the  news  that  winter 
wheat  was  suffering  from  want  of  moisture.  Benedict, 
Yates’  Centre,  and  Douglass,  in  southeastern  Kansas, 


J93 


A Story  of  Chicago 

sent  in  reports  of  dry,  windy  weather  that  was  killing 
the  young  grain  in  every  direction,  and  the  same  con- 
ditions seemed  to  prevail  in  the  central  counties.  In 
Illinois,  from  Quincy  and  Waterloo  in  the  west,  and 
from  Ridgway  in  the  south,  reports  came  steadily  to 
hand  of  freezing  weather  and  bitter  winds.  All  through 
the  lower  portions  of  the  State  the  snowfall  during 
the  winter  had  not  been  heavy  enough  to  protect  the 
seeded  grain.  But  the  Ohio  crop,  it  would  appear, 
was  promising  enough,  as  was  also  that  of  Missouri. 
In  Indiana,  however,  Jadwin  could  guess  that  the  hopes 
of  even  a moderate  yield  were  fated  to  be  disappointed ; 
persistent  cold  weather,  winter  continuing  almost  up 
to  the  first  of  April,  seemed  to  have  definitely  settled  the 
question. 

But  more  especially  Jadwin  watched  Nebraska,  that 
State  which  is  one  single  vast  wheat  field.  How 
would  Nebraska  do,  Nebraska  which  alone  might  feed 
an  entire  nation?  County  seat  after  county  seat  began 
to  send  in  its  reports.  All  over  the  State  the  grip  of 
winter  held  firm  even  yet.  The  wheat  had  been  bat- 
tered by  incessant  gales,  had  been  nipped  and  harried 
by  frost;  everywhere  the  young  half-grown  grain 
seemed  to  be  perishing.  It  was  a massacre,  a veritable 
slaughter?) 

But,  for  all  this,  nothing  could  be  decided  as  yet. 
Other  winter  wheat  States,  from  which  returns  were  as 
yet  only  partial,  might  easily  compensate  for  the  fail- 
ures elsewhere,  and  besides  all  that,  the  Bears  of  the 
Board  of  Trade  might  keep  the  price  inert  even  in  face 
of  the  news  of  short  yields.  As  a matter  of  fact,  the 
more  important  and  stronger  Bear  traders  were  al- 
ready piping  their  usual  strain.  Prices  were  bound  to 
decline,  the  three  years’  sagging  was  not  over  yet. 
They,  the  Bears,  were  too  strong;  no  Bull  news  could 
13 


194 


He  Pit 

frighten  them.  Somehow  there  was  bound  to  be  plenty 
of  wheat.  In  face  of  the  rumours  of  a short  crop  they 
kept  the  price  inert,  weak. 

On  the  tenth  of  April  came  the  Government  report  on 
the  condition  of  winter  wheat.  It  announced  an  aver- 
age far  below  any  known  for  ten  years  past.  On  March 
tenth  the  same  bulletin  had  shown  a moderate  supply 
in  farmers’  hands,  less  than  one  hundred  million  bushels, 
in  fact,  and  a visible  supply  of  less  than  forty  millions. 

The  Bear  leaders  promptly  set  to  work  to  discount 
this  news.  They  showed  how  certain  foreign  condi- 
tions would  more  than  offset  the  effect  of  a poor  Ameri- 
can harvest.  They  pointed  out  the  fact  that  the  Gov- 
ernment report  on  condition  was  brought  up  only  to 
the  first  of  April,  and  that  since  that  time  the  weather 
in  the  wheat  belt  had  been  favorable  beyond  the  wildest 
hopes. 

The  April  report  was  made  public  on  the  afternoon  of 
the  tenth  of  the  month.  That  same  evening  Jadwin  in- 
vited Gretry  and  his  wife  to  dine  at  the  new  house  on 
North  Avenue ; and  after  dinner,  leaving  Mrs.  Gretry 
and  Laura  in  the  <irawing-room,  he  brought  the  broker 
up  to  the  billiard'*'oom  for  a game  of  pool. 

But  when  Greiry  had  put  the  balls  in  the  triangle, 
the  two  men  did  not  begin  to  play  at  once.  Jadwin  had 
asked  the  question  that  had  been  uppermost  in  the 
minds  of  each  during  dinner. 

“Well,  Sam,”  he  had  said,  by  way  of  a beginning, 
“ what  do  you  think  of  this  Government  report?  ” 

The  broker  chalked  his  cue  placidly. 

“ I expect  there’ll  be  a bit  of  reaction  on  the  strength 
of  it,  but  the  market  will  go  off  again.  I said  wheat 
would  go  to  sixty,  and  I still  say  it.  It’s  a long  time  be- 
tween now  and  May.” 

“ I wasn’t  thinking  of  crop  conditions  only,”  ob- 


A Story  of  Chicago  195 

served  Jadwin.  “ Sarn,>*we’re  going  to  have  better 
times  and  higher  prices  this  summer.” 

Gretry  shook  his  head  and  entered  into  a long  argu- 
ment to  show  that  Jadwin  was  wrong. 

But  Jadwin  refused  to  be  convinced.  All  at  once  he 
laid  the  flat  of  his  hand  upon  the  table. 

“ Sam,  we’ve  touched  bottom,”  he  declared,  “ touched 
bottom  all  along  the  line.  It’s  a paper  dime  to  the 
Sub-Treasury.” 

“ I don’t  care  about  the  rest  of  the  line,”  said  the 
. broker  doggedly,  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  table, 
“ wheat  will  go  to  sixty.”  He  indicated  the  nest  of  balls 
with  a movement  of  his  chin.  “ Will  you  break?  ” 

Jadwin  broke  and  scored,  leaving  one  ball  three 
■,  inches  in  front  of  a corner  pocket.  He  called  the  shot, 
and  as  he  drew  back  his  cue  he  said,  deliberately : 

. “ Just  as  sure  as  I make  this  pocket  wheat  will — not 
go — off — another — cent.” 

With  the  last  word  he  drove  the  ball  home  and 
■ straightened  up.  Gretry  laid  down  his  cue  and  looked 
at  him  quickly.  But  he  did  not  speak.  Jadwin  sat 
down  on  one  of  the  straight-backed  chairs  upon  the 
raised  platform  against  the  wall  and  rested  his  elbows 
upon  his  knees. 

“Sam,”  he  said,  “the  time  is  come  for  a great  big 
change.”  * He  emphasised  the  word  with  a tap  of  his 
cue  upon  the  floor.  “We  can’t  play  our  game  the  way 
we’ve  been  playing  it  the  last  three  years.  We’ve  been 
hammering  wheat  down  and  down  and  down,  till  we’ve 
got  it  below  the  cost  of  production ; and  now  she  won’t 
go  any  further  with  all  the  hammerin'i^ha  the  world. 
The  other  fellows,  the  rest  of  this  1 >1  "^’owd,  don’t 
1 seem  t'  see  it,  but  I see  it.  Before  fall  we’i^j  going  to 
have  hifher  prices.  Wheat  is  going  up,  and  when  it 
does  I mean  to  be  right  there.” 


196 


The  Pit 


“ We’re  going  to  have  a dull  market  right  up  to  the 
beginning  of  winter,”  persisted  the  other. 

“ Come  and  say  that  to  me  at  the  beginning  of  win- 
ter, then,”  Jadwin  retorted.  “ Look  here,  Sam,  I’m 
short  of  May  five  hundred  thousand  bushels,  and  to- 
morrow morning  you  are  going  to  send  your  boys  on 
the  floor  for  me  and  close  that  trade.” 

“ You’re  crazy,  J.,”  protested  the  broker.  “ Hold  on 
another  month,  and  I promise  you,  you’ll  thank  me.” 

[^Not  another  day,  not  another  hour.  This  Bear  cam- 
paign of  ours  has  come  to  an  end.  That’s  said  and 
signed.” 

“ Why,  it’s  just  in  its  prime,”  protested  the  broker. 
“ Great  heavens,  you  mustn’t  get  out  of  the  game  now, 
after  hanging  on  for  three  years.” 

“ I’m  not  going  to  get  out  of  it.” 

“Why,  good  Lord!”  said  Gretry,  “you  don’t  mean 
to  say  that ” 

^That  I’m  going  over.  That’s  exactly  what  I do 
mean.  I’m  going  to  change  over  so  quick  to  the  other 
side  that  I’ll  be  there  before  you  can  take  off  your  hat. 
I’m  done  with  a Bear  game.  It  was'  good  while  it 
lasted,  but  we’ve  worked  it  for  all  there  was  in  it.  I’m 
not  only  going  to  cover  my  May  shorts  and  get  out  of 
that  trade,  but  ” — ^Jadwin  leaned  forward  and  struck  his 
hand  upon  his  knee — “ but  I'm  going  to  buy.  I’m  go- 
ing to  buy  September  wheat,  and  I’m  going  to  buy  it 
to-morrow,  five  hundred  thousand  bushels  of  it,  and  if 
the  market  goes  as  I think  it  will  later  on.  I’m  going  to 
buy  more.  I’m  no  Bear  any  longer.  I’m  going  to 
boost  this  tn^*X-pt  right  through  till  the  last  bell  rings ; 
and  from  Curtis  Jadwin  spells  B-u-  double  1 — 

Bull.” 

“ They’ll  slaughter  you,”  said  Gretry,  “ slaugl  ter  you 
in  cold  blood.  You’re  just  one  man  against  a gang— 


197 


A Story  of  Chicago 

a gang  of  cutthroats.  Those  Bears  have  got  millions 
and  millions  back  of  them.  You  don’t  suppose,  do 
you,  that  old  man  Crookes,  or  Kenniston,  or  little 
Sweeny,  or  all  that  lot  would  give  you  one  little  bit  of  a 
chance  for  your  life  if  they  got  a grip  on  you.  Cover 
your  shorts  if  you  want  to,  but,  for  God’s  sake,  don’t 
begin  to  buy  in  the  same  breath.  You  wait  a while. 
If  this  market  has  touched  bottom,  we’ll  be  able  to  tell 
in  a few  days.  I’ll  admit,  for  the  sake  of  argument,  that 
just  now  there’s  a pause.  But  nobody  can  tell  whether 
it  will  turn  up  or  down  yet.  Now’s  the  time  to  be  con- 
s^yative,  to  play  it  cautious.” 

If  I was  conservative  and  cautious,”  answered  Jad- 
win,  “ I wouldn’t  be  in  this  game  at  all.  I’d  be  buying 
U.  S.  four  percents.  That’s  the  big  mistake  so  many 
of  these  fellows  down  here  make.  They  go  into  a 
game  where  the  only  ones  who  can  possibly  win  are 
the  ones  who  take  big  chances,  and  then  they  try  to 
play  the  thing  cautiously.  If  I wait  a while  till  the 
market  turns  up  and  everybody  is  buying,  how  am  I 
any  the  better  off?  No,  sir,  you  buy  the  September 
option  for  me  to-morrow — five  hundred  thousand 
bushels.  I deposited  the  margin  to  your  credit  in  the 
Illinois  Trust  this  afternoon^ 

There  was  a long  silence.  Gretry  spun  a ball  be- 
tween his  fingers,  top-fashion. 

“ Well,”  he  said  at  last,  hesitatingly,  “ well — I don’t 
know,  J. — ^you  are  either  Napoleonic — or — or  a colos- 
sal idiot.” 

“ Neither  one  nor  the  other,  Samuel.  I’m  just  using 
a little  common  sense.  . . . Is  it  yorn  shot  ? ” 

“ I’m  blessed  if  I know.” 

" Well,  well  start  a new  game.  Sam,  I’ll  give  you  six 
balls  and  beat  you  in  ” — he  looked  at  his  watch — beat 
you  before  half-past  nine.” 


The  Pit 


198 

“For  a doUar?” 

“ I never  bet,  Sam,  and  you  know  it,” 

Half  an  hour  later  Jadwin  said: 

“ Shall  we  go  down  and  join  the  ladies?  Don’t  put 
out  your  cigar.  That’s  one  bargain  I made  with  Laura 
before  we  moved  in  here — that  smoking  was  allowable 
everywhere.” 

“ Room  enough,  I guess,”  observed  the  broker,  as 
the  two  stepped  into  the  elevator.  “ How  many  rooms 
have  you  got  here,  by  the  way?  ” 

“ Upon  my  word,  I don’t  know,”  answered  Jadwin. 
“ I discovered  a new  one  yesterday.  Fact.  I was  hav- 
ing a look  around,  and  I came  out  into  a little  kind  of 
smoking-room  or  other  that,  I swear,  I’d  never  seen 
before.  I had  to  get  Laura  to  tell  me  about  it.” 

The  elevator  sank  to  the  lower  floor,  and  Jadwin 
and  the  broker  stepped  out  into  the  main  hallway. 
From  the  drawing-room  near  by  came  the  sound  of 
women’s  voices. 

“ Before  we  go  in,”  said  Jadwin,  “ I want  you  to  see 
our  art  gallery  and  the  organ.  Last  time  you  were  up, 
remember,  the  men  were  still  at  work  in  here.” 

They  passed  down  a broad  corridor,  and  at  the  end, 
just  before  parting  the  heavy,  sombre  curtains,  Jadwin 
pressed  a couple  of  electric  buttons,  and  in  the  open 
space  above  the  curtain  sprang  up  a lambent,  steady 
glow. 

The  broker,  as  he  entered,  gave  a long  whistle.  The 
art  gallery  took  in  the  height  of  two  of  the  stories  of 
the  house.  It  was  shaped  like  a rotunda,  and  topped 
with  a vast  airy  dome  of  coloured  glass.  Here  and 
there  about  the,  room  were  glass  cabinets  full  of  bibelots, 
ivory  statuettes,  old  snuff  boxes,  fans  of  the  sixteenth 
and  seventeenth  centuries.  The  walls  themselves  were 
covered  with  a multitude  of  pictures,  oils,  water-colours, 
with  one  or  two  pastels. 


199 


A Story  of  Chicago 

But  to  the  left  of  the  entrance,  let  into  the  frame  of 
the  building,  stood  a great  organ,  large  enough  for  a 
cathedral,  and  giving  to  view,  in  the  dulled  incandes- 
cence of  the  electrics,  its  sheaves  of  mighty  pipes. 

“ Well,  this  is  something  like,”  exclaimed  the  broker. 

“ I don’t  know  much  about  ’em  myself,”  hazarded 
Jadwin,  looking  at  the  pictures,  “ but  Laura  can  tell 
you.  We  bought  most  of  ’em  while  we  were  abroad, 
year  before  last.  Laura  says  this  is  the  best.”  He  in- 
dicated a large  “ Bougereau  ” that  represented  a group 
of  nymphs  bathing  in  a woodland  pool. 

“ H’m  ! ” said  the  broker,  “ you  wouldn’t  want  some 
of  your  Sunday-school  superintendents  to  see  this  now. 
This  is  what  the  boys  down  on  the  Board  would  call  a 
bar-room  picture.” 

But  Jadwin  did  not  laugh. 

“ It  never  struck  me  in  just  that  way,”  he  said, 
gravely. 

“ It’s  a fine  piece  of  work,  though,”  Gretry  hastened 
to  add.  “ Fine,  great  colouring.” 

“ I like  this  one  pretty  well,”  continued  Jadwin,  mov- 
ing to  a canvas  by  Detaille.  It  was  one  of  the  inevitable 
studies  of  a cuirassier;  in  this  case  a trumpeter,  one 
arm  high  in  the  air,  the  hand  clutching  the  trumpet,  the 
horse,  foam-flecked,  at  a furious  gallop.  In  the  rear, 
through  clouds  of  dust,  the  rest  of  the  squadron  was 
indicated  by  a few  points  of  colour. 

“ Yes,  that’s  pretty  neat,”  concurred  Gretry.  “ He’s 
sure  got  a gait  on.  Lord,  what  a lot  of  accoutrements 
those  French  fellows  stick  on.  Now  our  boys  would 
chuck  about  three-fourths  of  that  truck  before  going 
into  action.  . . . Queer  way  these  artists  work,” 

he  went  on,  peering  close  to  the  canvas.  “ Look  at  it 
close  up  and  it’s  just  a lot  of  little  daubs,  but  you  get 
off  a distance  ” — he  drew  back,  cocking  his  head  to 


200 


The  Pit 


one  side — “ and  you  see  now.  Hey — see  how  the 
thing  bunches  up.  Pretty  neat,  isn’t  it  ? ” He  turned 
from  the  picture  and  rolled  his  eyes  about  the  room. 

“ Well,  well,”  he  murmured.  “ This  certainly  is  the 
real  thing,  J.  I suppose,  now,  it  all  represents  a pretty 
b^  pot  of  money.” 

1 “ I’m  not  quite  used  to  it  yet  myself,”  said  Jadwin. 
“I  was  in  here  last  Sunday,  thinking  it  all  over,  the 
new  house,  and  the  money  and  all.  And  it  struck  me 
as  kind  of  queer  the  way  things  have  turned  out  for 
me.  . . . Sam,  do  you  know,  I can  remember  the 
time,  up  there  in  Ottawa  County,  Michigan,  on  my  old 
dad’s  farm,  when  I used  to  have  to  get  up  before  day- 
break to  tend  the  stock,  and  my  sister  and  I used  to 
run  out  quick  into  the  stable  and  stand  in  the  warm 
cow  fodder  in  the  stalls  to  warm  our  bare  feet.  . . . 

She  up  and  died  when  she  was  about  eighteen — gallop- 
ing consumption.  Yes,  sir.  By  George,  how  I loved 
that  little  sister  of  mine!  You  remember  her,  Sam. 
Remember  how  you  used  to  come  out  from  Grand 
Rapids  every  now  and  then  to  go  squirrel  shooting  with 
me?  ” 

“ Sure,  sure.  Oh,  I haven’t  forgot.” 

“ Well,  I was  wishing  the  other  day  that  I could 
bring  Sadie  down  here,  and — oh,  I don’t  know — give 
her  a good  time.  She  never  had  a good  time  when  she 
was  alive.  Work,  work,  work;  morning,  noon,  and 
night.  I’d  like  to  have  made  it  up  to  her.  I believe 
in  making  people  happy,  Sam.  That’s  the  way  I take 
my  fun.  But  it’s  too  late  to  do  it  now  for  my  little 
sister.” 

“ Well,”  hazarded  Gretry,  “ you  got  a good  wife  in 
yonder  to——” 

Jadwin  interrupted  him.  He  half  turned  away,  thrust- 
ing his  hands  suddenly  into  his  pockets.  Partly  to  him- 
self, partly  to  his  friend  he  murmured : 


A Story  of  Chicago 


20t 


" You  bet  I have,  you  bet  I have.  Sam,”  he  ex- 
claimed, then  turned  away  again.  “ „ „ „ Oh,  well, 
never  mind,”  he  murmured. 

Gretry,  embarrassed,  constrained,  put  his  chin  in  the 
air,  shutting  his  eyes  in  a knowing  fashion. 

“ I understand,”  he  answered.  “ I understand,  J.” 

“Say,  look  at  this  organ  here,”  said  Jadwin  briskly. 
“ Here’s  the  thing  I like  to  play  with.” 

They  crossed  to  the  other  side  of  the  room. 

“ Oh,  you’ve  got  one  of  those  attachment  things,”  ob- 
served the  broker. 

^Listen  now,”  said  Jadwin.  He  took  a perforated 
roll  from  the  case  near  at  hand  and  adjusted  it,  Gretry 
looking  on  with  the  solemn  interest  that  all  American 
business  men  have  in  mechanical  inventions.  Jadwin 
sat  down  befof^it,’ pulled  out  a stop  or  two,  and  placed 
his  feet  on  the  pedals.  A vast  preliminary  roaring 
breath  soughed  through  the  pipes,  with  a vibratory 
rush  of  power.  Then  there  came  a canorous  snarl  of 
bass,  and  then,  abruptly,  with  resistless  charm,  and 
with  full-bodied,  satisfying  amplitude  of  volume  the 
opening  movement  of  the  overture  of  “ Carmen.” 

“ Great,  great ! ” shouted  Gretry,  his  voice  raised  to 
make  himself  heard.  “ That’s  immense.” 

The  great-lunged  harmony  was  filling  the  entire  gal- 
lery, clear  cut,  each  note  clearly,  sharply  treated 
with  a precision  that,  if  mechanical,  was  yet  effective. 
Jadwin,  his  eyes  now  on  the  stops,  now  on  the  sliding 
strip  of  paper,  played  on.  Through  the  sonorous 
clamour  of  the  pipes  Gretry  could  hear  him  speaking, 
but  he  caught  only  a word  or  two. 

“Toreador  . . . horse  power  . . , Madame 
Calve  . . . electric  motor  . o o fine  song  , . . 
storage  battery.” 

The  “ movement  ” thinned  out,  and  dwindled  to  a 


202 


The  Pit 


strain  of  delicate  lightness,  sustained  by  the  smallest 
pipes  and  developing  a new  motive;  this  was  twice  re- 
peated, and  then  ran  down  to  a series  of  chords  and 
bars  that  prepared  for  and  prefigured  some  great  effect 
close  at  hand.  There  was  a short  pause,  then  with  the 
sudden  releasing  of  a tremendous  rush  of  sound,  back 
surged  the  melody,  with  redoubled  volume  and  power, 
to  the  original  movement. 

“ That’s  bully,  bully ! ” shouted  Gretry,  clapping  his 
hands,  and  his  e)'e,  caught  by  a movement  on  the  other 
side  of  the  room,  he  turned  about  to  see  Laura  Jadwin 
standing  between  the  opened  curtains  at  the  entrance. 

Seen  thus  unexpectedly,  the  broker  was  again  over- 
whelmed with  a sense  of  the  beauty  of  Jadwin’s  wife. 
Laura  was  in  evening  dress  of  black  lace ; her  arms 
and  neck  were  bare.  Her  black  hair  was  piled  high 
upon  her  head,  a single  American  Beauty  rose  nodded 
against  her  bare  shoulder.  She  was  even  y'et  slim 
and  very  tall,  her  face  pale  with  that  unusual  paleness 
of  hers  that  was  yet  a colour.  Around  her  slender 
neck  was  a marvellous  collar  of  pearls  many  strands 
deep,  set  off  and  held  in  place  by  diamond  clasps. 

With  Laura  came  Mrs.  Gretry  and  Page.  The 
broker’s  wife  was  a vivacious,  small,  rather  pretty 
blonde  woman,  a little  angular,  a little  faded.  She  was 
garrulous,  witty,  slangy.  She  wore  turquoises  in  her 
ears  morning,  noon,  and  night. 

But  three  years  had  made  a vast  difference  in  Page 
Dearborn.  All  at  once  she  was  a young  woman.  Her 
straight,  hard,  little  figure  had  developed,  her  arms 
were  rounded,  her  eyes  were  calmer.  She  had  grown 
taller,  broader.  Her  former  exquisite  beauty  was  per- 
haps not  quite  so  delicate,  so  fine,  so  virginal,  so  charm- 
ingly angular  and  boyish.  There  was  infinitely  more  of 
the  woman  in  it;  and  perhaps  because  of  this  she  looked 


203 


A Story  of  Chicago 

more  like  Laura  than  at  any  time  of  her  life  before. 
But  even  yet  her  expression  was  one  of  gravity,  of  seri- 
ousness. There  was  always  a certain  aloofness  about 
Page.  She  looked  out  at  the  world  solemnly,  and  as  if 
separated  from  its  lighter  side.  Things  humorous  in- 
terested her  only  as  inexplicable  vagaries  of  the  human 
animal. 

“ We  heard  the  organ,”  said  Laura,  “ so  we  came  in. 
I wanted  Mrs.  Gretry  to  listen  to  it.” 

• O O • • 9 

The  three  years  that  had  just  passed  had  been  the  most 
important  years  of  Laura  Jadwin’s  life.  Since  her  mar- 
riage she  had  grown  intellectually  and  morally  with 
amazing  rapidity.  Indeed,  so  swift  had  been  the  change, 
that  it  was  not  so  much  a growth  as  a transformation. 
She  was  no  longer  the  same  half-formed,  impulsive  girl 
who  had  found  a delight  in  the  addresses  of  her  three 
lovers,  and  who  had  sat  on  the  floor  in  the  old  home 
on  State  Street  and  allowed  Landry  Court  to  hold  her 
hand.  She  looked  back  upon  the  Miss  Dearborn  of 
those  days  as  though  she  were  another  person.  How 
she  had  grown  since  then ! How  she  had  changed ! 
How  different,  how  infinitely  more  serious  and  sweet 
her  life  since  then  had  become ! 

A great  fact  had  entered  her  world,  a great  new  ele- 
ment, that  dwarfed  all  other  thoughts,  all  other  con- 
siderations. ___This  was  her-  love  for  her  husband.  It 
was  as  though  until  the  time  of  her  marriage  she  had 
walked  in  darkness,  a darkness  that  she  fancied  was 
day;  walked  perversely,  carelessly,  and  with  a frivolity 
that  was  almost  wicked.  Then,  suddenly,  she  had  seen 
a great  light.  Love  had  entered  her  world.  In  her  new 
heaven  a new  light  was  fixed,  and  all  other  things  were 
seen  only  because  of  this  light;  all  other  things  were 
touched  by  it,  tempered  by  it,  warmed  and  vivified  by  it. 


204 


The  Pit 


It  had  seemed  to  date  from  a certain  evening  at  their 
country  house  at  Geneva  Lake  in  Wisconsin,  where  she 
had  spent  her  honeymoon  with  her  husband.  They  had 
been  married  about  ten  days.  It  was  a July  evening, 
and  they  were  quite  alone  on  board  the  little  steam 
yacht  the  “ Thetis.”  She  remembered  it  all  very  plainly. 
It  had  been  so  warm  that  she  had  not  changed  her  dress 
after  dinner — she  recalled  that  it  was  of  Honiton  lace 
over  old-rose  silk,  and  that  Curtis  had  said  it  was  the 
prettiest  he  had  ever  seen.  It  was  an  hour  before  mid- 
night, and  the  lake  was  so  still  as  to  appear  veritably 
solid.  The  moon  was  reflected  upon  the  surface  with 
never  a ripple  to  blur  its  image.  The  sky  was  grey  with 
starlight,  and  only  a vague  bar  of  black  between  the 
star  shimmer  and  the  pale  shield  of  the  water  marked 
the  shore  line.  Never  since  that  night  could  she  hear 
the  call  of  whip-poor-wills  or  the  piping  of  night  frogs 
that  the  scene  did  not  come  back  to  her.  The  little 
” Thetis  ” had  throbbed  and  panted  steadily.  At  the 
door  of  the  engine  room,  the  engineer — the  grey  Mac- 
Kenny,  his  back  discreetly  turned — sat  smoking  a pipe 
and  taking  the  air.  From  time  to  time  he  would  swing 
himself  into  the  engine  room,  and  the  clink  and  scrape 
of  his  shovel  made  itself  heard  as  he  stoked  the  fire 
vigorously. 

Stretched  out  in  a long  wicker  deck  chair,  hatless,  a 
drab  coat  thrown  around  her  shoulders,  Laura  had  sat 
near  her  husband,  who  had  placed  himself  upon  a camp 
stool,  where  he  could  reach  the  wheel  with  one  hand. 

“ Well,”  he  had  said  at  last,  “ are  you  glad  3'ou  mar- 
ried me.  Miss  Dearborn?  ” And  she  had  caught  him 
about  the  neck  and  drawn  his  face  down  to  hers,  and 
her  head  thrown  back,  their  lips  all  but  touching,  had 
whispered  over  and  over  again; 

“ I love  you — love  you — love  you!  ” 


A Story  of  Chicago 


205 


That  night  was  final.  The  marriage  ceremony,  even 
that  moment  in  her  room,  when  her  husband  had  taken 
her  in  his  arms  and  she  had  felt  the  first  stirring  of  love 
in  her  heart,  all  the  first  week  of  their  married  life  had 
been  for  Laura  a whirl,  a blur.  She  had  not  been  able 
to  find  herself.  Her  affection  for  her  husband  came  and 
went  capriciously.  There  were  moments  when  she  be- 
lieved herself  to  be  really  unhappy.  Then,  all  at  once, 
she  seemed  to  awake.  Not  the  ceremony  at  St.  James’ 
Church,  but  that  awakening  had  been  her  marriage. 
Now  it  was  irrevocable;  she  was  her  husband’s;  she  be- 
longed to  him  indissolubly,  forever  and  forever,  and  the 
surrender  was  a glory.  Laura  in  that  moment  knew 
that  love,  the  supreme  triumph  of  a woman’s  life,  was 
less  a victory  than  a capitulation. 

Since  then  her  happiness  had  been  perfect.  Literally 
and  truly  there  was  not  a cloud,  not  a mote  in  her  sun- 
shine. She  had  everything — the  love  of  her  husband, 
great  wealth,  extraordinary  beauty,  perfect  health,  an 
untroubled  n.md,  friends,  position — everything.  God 
had  been  good  to  her,  beyond  all  dreams  and  all  deserv- 
ing. For  her  had  been  reserved  all  the  prizes,  all  the 
guerdons  ; for  her  who  had  done  nothing  to  merit  them. 

Her  husband  she  knew  was  no  less  happy.  In  those 
first  three  years  after  their  marriage,  life  was  one  un- 
ending pageant;  and  their  happiness  became  for  them 
some  marvellous,  bewildering  thing,  dazzling,  resplen- 
dent, a strange,  glittering,  jewelled  Wonder-worker  that 
suddenly  had  been  put  into  their  hands. 

As  one  of  the  first  results  of  this  awakening,  Laura 
reproached  herself  with  having  done  but  little  for  Page. 
She  told  herself  that  she  had  not  been  a good  sister, 
that  often  she  had  been  unjust,  quick  tempered,  and  had 
made  the  little  girl  to  suffer  because  of  her  caprices.  She 
had  not  sympathised  sufficiently  with  her  small  troubles 


2o6 


The  Fit 


— so  she  made  herself  believe — and  had  found  too  many 
occasions  to  ridicule  Page’s  intenseness  and  queer  little 
solemnities.  True  she  had  given  her  a good  home, 
good  clothes,  and  a good  education,  but  she  should 
have  given  more — more  than  mere  duty-gifts.  She 
should  have  been  more  of  a companion  to  the  little  girl, 
more  of  a help ; in  fine,  more  of  a mother.  Laura  felt  all 
at  once  the  responsibilities  of  the  elder  sister  in  a family 
bereft  of  parents.  Page  was  growing  fast,  and  growing 
astonishingly  beautiful;  in  a little  while  she  would  be  a 
young  woman,  and  over  the  near  horizon,  very  soon 
now,  must  inevitably  loom  the  grave  question  of  her 
marriage. 

But  it  was  only  this  realisation  of  certain  responsi- 
bilities that  during  the  first  years  of  her  married  life  at 
any  time  drew  away  Laura’s  consideration  of  her  hus- 
band. She  began  to  get  acquainted  with  the  real  man- 
within-the-man  that  she  knew  now  revealed  himself 
only  after  marriage.  Jadwin  her  husband  was  so  dif- 
ferent from,  so  infinitely  better  than,  Jadwdn  her  lover, 
that  Laura  sometimes  found  herself  looking  back  with 
a kind  of  retrospective  apprehension  on  the  old  days 
and  the  time  when  she  was  simply  Miss  Dearborn. 
How  little  she  had  known  him  after  all ! And  how,  in 
the  face  of  this  ignorance,  this  innocence,  this  absence 
of  any  insight  into  his  real  character,  had  she  dared  to 
take  the  irretrievable  step  that  bound  her  to  him  for 
life?  The  Curtis  Jadwin  of  those  early  days  was  so 
much  another  man.  He  might  have  been  a rascal ; she 
could  not  have  known  it.  As  it  was,  her  husband  had 
promptly  come  to  be,  for  her,  the  best,  the  finest  man 
she  had  ever  known.  But  it  might  easily  have  been  dif- 
ferent. 

His  attitude  to^^ards  her  was  thoughtfulness  itself. 
Hardly  ever  was  he  absent  from  her,  even  for  a day,  that 
he  did  not  bring  her  some  little  present,  some  little  keep- 


207 


A Story  of  Chicago 

sake — or  even  a bundh  of  flowers — when  he  returned  in 
the  evening.  The  anniversaries — Christmas,  their  wed- 
ding day,  her  birthday — ^he  always  observed  with  great 
eclat.  He  took  a holiday  from  his  business,  surprised 
her  with  presents  under  her  pillow,  or  her  dinner-plate, 
and  never  failed  to  take  her  to  the  theatre  in  the  evening. 

However,  it  was  not  only  Jadwin’s  virtues  that  en- 
deared him  to  his  wife.  He  was  no  impeccable  hero  in 
her  eyes.  He  was  tremendously  human.  He  had  his 
faults,  his  certain  lovable  weaknesses,  and  it  was  pre- 
cisely these  traits  that  Laura  found  so  adorable. 

For  one  thing,  Jadwin  could  be  magnificently  incon- 
sistent. Let  him  set  his  mind  and  heart  upon  a given 
pursuit,  pleasure,  or  line  of  conduct  not  altogether  ad- 
visable at  the  moment,  and  the  ingenuity  of  the  excuses 
by  which  he  justified  himself  were  monuments  of  elabo- 
rate sophistry.  Yet,  if  later  he  lost  interest,  he  reversed 
his  arguments  with  supreme  disregard  for  his  former 
words. 

Then,  too,  he  developed  a boyish  pleasure  in  certain 
unessential  though  cherished  objects  and  occupations, 
that  he  indulged  extravagantly  and  to  the  neglect  of 
things,  not  to  say  duties,  incontestably  of  more  im- 
portance. 

One  of  these  objects  was  the  “ Thetis.”  In  every 
conceivable  particular  the  little  steam  yacht  was  com- 
plete down  to  the  last  bolt,  the  last  coat  of  varnish;  but 
at  times  during  their  summer  vacations,  when  Jadwin, 
in  all  reason,  should  have  been  supervising  the  laying 
out  of  certain  unfinished  portions  of  the  “ grounds  ” — 
supervision  which  could  be  trusted  to  no  subordinate — 
he  would  be  found  aboard  the  “ Thetis,”  hatless,  in  his 
shirt-sleeves,  in  solemn  debate  with  the  grey  MacKenny 
and — a cleaning  rag,  or  monkey-wrench,  or  paint  brush 
in  his  hand — tinkering  and  pottering  about  the  boat, 


2o8 


The  Pit 


over  and  over  again.  Wealthy  as  he  was,  he  could 
have  maintained  an  entire  crew  on  board  whose  whole 
duty  should  have  been  to  screw,  and  scrub,  and  scour. 
But  Jadwin  would  have  none  of  it.  “ Cost^too  much,” 
he  would  declare,  with  profound  gravity.  (_He  had  the 
self-made  American’s  handiness  with  implements  and 
paint  brushes,  and  he  would,  at  high  noon  and  under  a 
murderous  sun,  make  the  trip  from  the  house  to  the 
dock  where  the  “ Thetis  ” was  moored,  for  the  trivial 
pleasure  of  tightening  a bolt — which  did  not  need  tight- 
ening; or  wake  up  in  the  night  to  tell  Laura  of  some 
wonderful  new  idea  he  had  conceived  as  to  the  equip- 
ment or  decoration  of  the  yacht.  He  had  blustered 
about  the  extravagance  of  a “ crew,”  but  the  sums  of 
money  that  went  to  the  brightening,  refitting,  overhaul- 
ing, repainting,  and  reballasting  of  the  boat — all  abso- 
lutely uncalled-for — made  even  Laura  gasp,  and  would 
have  maintained  a dozen  sailors  an  entire  year!^ 

^^his  same  inconsistency  prevailed  also  in  other  direc- 
tions. In  the  matter  of  business  Jadwdn’s  economy 
was  unimpeachable.  He  would  cavil  on  a half-dollar’s 
overcharge ; he  would  put  himself  to  downright  incon- 
venience to  save  the  useless  expenditure  of  a dime — 
and  boast  of  it.  But  no  extravagance  was  ever  too 
great,  no  time  ever  too  valuable,  when  bass  were  to  be 
caught^ 

For  Jadwin  was  a fisherman  unregenerate.  Laura, 
though  an  early  riser  when  in  the  city,  was  apt  to  sleep 
late  in  the  country,  and  never  omitted  a two-hours’  nap 
in  the  heat  of  the  afternoon.  Her  husband  improved 
these  occasions  when  he  w'as  deprived  of  her  society, 
to  indulge  in  his  pastime.  Never  a morning  so  for- 
bidding that  his  lines  were  not  in  the  water  by  five 
o’clock;  never  a sun  so  scorcning  that  he  \vzs  not 
coaxing  a “ strike  ” in  the  stumps  and  reeds  in  the  shade 
under  the  shores. 


209 


A Story  of  Chicago 

It  was  the  one  pleasure  he  could  not  share  with  his 
wife.  Laura  was  unable  to  bear  the  monotony  of  the 
slow-moving  boat,  the  hours  spent  without  results,  the 
enforced  idleness,  the  cramped  positions.  Only  occa- 
sionally could  Jadwin  prevail  upon  her  to  accompany 
him.  And  then  what  preparations ! Queen  Elizabeth 
approaching  her  barge  was  attended  with  no  less  solici- 
tude. MacKenny  (who  sometimes  acted  as  guide  and 
oarsman)  and  her  husband  exhausted  their  ingenuity 
to  make  her  comfortable.  They  held  anxious  debates: 
“Do  you  think  she’ll  like  that?”  “Wouldn’t  this 
make  it  easier  for  her?”  “Is  that  the  way  she  liked 
it  last  time  ? ” Jadwin  himself  arranged  the  cush- 
ions, spread  the  carpet  over  the  bottom  of  the  boat, 
handed  her  in,  found  her  old  gloves  for  her,  baited  her 
hook,  disentangled  her  line,  saw  to  it  that  the  mineral 
water  in  the  ice-box  was  sufficiently  cold,  and  performed 
an  endless  series  of  little  attentions  looking  to  her  com- 
fort and  enjoyment.  It  was  all  to  no  purpose,  and  at 
length  Laura  declared: 

“ Curtis,  dear,  it  is  no  use.  You  just  sacrifice  every 
bit  of  your  pleasure  to  make  me  comfortable — ^to  make 
me  enjoy  it;  and  I just  don’t.  I’m  sorry,  I want  to 
share  every  pleasure  with  you,  but  I don’t  like  to  fish, 
and  never  will.  You  go  alone.  I’m  just  a hindrance 
to  you.”  And  though  he  blustered  at  first,  Laura  had 
her  way. 

Once  in  the  period  of  these  Aree  years  Laura  and  her 
husband  had  gone  abroad.  I But  her  experience  in 
England — they  did  not  get  to  me  Continent — had  been 
a disappointment  to  her.  The  museums,  art  galleries, 
and  cathedrals  were  not  of  the  least  interest  to  Jadwin, 
and  though  he  followed  her  from  one  to  another  with 
uncomplaining  stoicism,  she  felt  his  distress,  and  had 
contrived  to  return  home  three  months  ahead  of  tim^ 


14 


210 


The  Pit 


It  was  during  this  trip  that  they  had  bought  so  many 
of  the  pictures  and  appointments  for  the  North  Avenue 
house,  and  Laura’s* disappointment  over  her  curtailed 
European  travels  was  mitigated  by  the  anticipation  of 
her  pleasure  in  settling  in  the  new  home.  This  had  not 
been  possible  immediately  after  their  marriage.  For 
nearly  two  years  the  great  place  had  been  given  over 
to  contractors,  architects,  decorators,  and  gardeners, 
and  Laura  and  her  husband  had  lived,  while  in  Chicago, 
at  a hotel,  giving  up  the  one-time  rectory  on  Cass 
Street  to  Page  and  to  Aunt  Wess’. 

But  when  at  last  Laura  entered  upon  possession  of 
the  North  Avenue  house,  she  was  not — after  the  first 
enthusiasm  and  excitement  over  its  magnificence  had 
died  down — altogether  pleased  with  it,  though  she  told 
herself  the  contrary.  Outwardly  it  was  all  that  she 
could  desire.  It  fronted  Lincoln  Park,  and  from  all  the 
windows  upon  that  side  the  most  delightful  outlooks 
were  obtainable — green  woods,  open  lawns,  the  parade 
ground,  the  Lincoln  monument,  dells,  bushes,  smooth 
drives,  flower  beds,  and  fountains.  From  the  great  bay 
window  of  Laura’s  own  sitting-room  she  could  see  far 
out  over  Lake  Michigan,  and  watch  the  procession  of 
great  lake  steamers,  from  Milwaukee,  far-distant  Du- 
luth, and  the  Sault  Sainte  Marie — the  famous  “ Soo  ” — • 
defiling  majestically  past,  making  for  the  mouth  of  the 
river,  laden  to  the  water’s  edge  with  whole  harvests  of 
wheat.  At  night,  when  the  windows  were  open  in  the 
warm  weather,  she  could  hear  the  mournful  wash  and 
lapping  of  the  water  on  the  embankments. 

The  grounds  about  her  home  were  beautiful.  The 
stable  itself  was  half  again  as  large  as  her  old  home  op- 
posite St.  James’s,  and  the  conservatory,  in  which  she 
took  the  keenest  delight,  was  a wonderful  affair — a 
vast  bubble-like  structure  of  green  panes,  whence, 


211 


A Story  of  Chicago 

winter  and  summer,  came  a multitude  of  flowers  for  the 
house — violets,  lilies  of  the  valley,  jonquils,  hyacinths, 
tulips,  and  her  own  loved  roses. 

But  the  interior  of  the  house  was,  in  parts,  less 
satisfactory.  Jadwin,  so  soon  as  his  marriage  was 
a certainty,  had  bought  the  house,  and  had  given 
over  its  internal  furnishings  to  a firm  of  decorators. 
Innocently  enough  he  had  intended  to  surprise  his 
wife,  had  told  himself  that  she  should  not  be  bur- 
dened with  the  responsibility  of  selection  and  plan- 
ning. Fortunately,  however,  the  decorators  were  men 
of  taste.  There  was  nothing  to  offend,  and  much  to 
delight  in  the  results  they  obtained  in  the  dining-room, 
breakfast-room,  parlors,  drawing-rooms,  and  suites  of 
bedrooms.  But  Laura,  though  the  beauty  of  it  all  en- 
chanted her,  could  never  rid  herself  of  a feeling  that  it 
was  not  hers.  It  impressed  her  with  its  splendour  of 
natural  woods  and  dull  “ colour  effects,”  its  cunning 
electrical  devices,  its  mechanical  contrivances  for  com- 
fort, like  the  ready-made  luxury  and  “ convenience  ” of 
a Pullman. 

However,  she  had  intervened  in  time  to  reserve  certain 
of  the  rooms  to  herself,  and  these — the  library,  her  bed- 
room, and  more  especially  that  apartment  from  whose 
bay  windows  she  looked  out  upon  the  Lake,  and  which, 
as  if  she  were  still  in  her  old  home,  she  called  the  “ up- 
stairs sitting-room  ” — she  furnished  to  suit  herself. 

For  very  long  she  found  it  difficult,  even  with  all  her 
resolution,  with  all  her  pleasure  in  her  new-gained 
wealth,  to  adapt  herself  to  a manner  of  living  upon  so 
vast  a scale.  She  found  herself  continually  planning  the 
marketing  for  the  next  day,  forgetting  that  this  now 
was  part  of  the  housekeeper’s  duties.  For  months  she 
persisted  in  “ doing  her  room  ” after  breakfast.  Just  as 
she  had  been  taug'ht  to  do  in  the  old  days  when  she 


212 


The  Pit 


was  a little  girl  at  Barrington.  She  was  afraid  of  the 
elevator,  and  never  really  learned  how  to  use  the  neat 
little  system  of  telephones  that  connected  the  various 
parts  of  the  house  with  the  servants’  quarters.  For 
months  her  chiefest  concern  in  her  wonderful  surround- 
ings took  the  form  of  a dread  of  burglars. 

Her  keenest  delights  were  her  stable  and  the  great 
organ  in  the  art  gallery;  and  these  alone  more  than 
compensated  for  her  uneasiness  in  other  particulars. 

Horses  Laura  adored — ^black  ones  with  flowing  tails 
and  manes,  like  certain  pictures  she  had  seen.  Nowa- 
days, except  on  the  rarest  occasions,  she  never  set  foot 
out  of  doors,  except  to  take  her  carriage,  her  coupe, 
her  phaeton,  or  her  dog-cart.  Best  of  all  she  loved  her 
saddle  horses.  She  had  learned  to  ride,  and  the  morn- 
ing was  inclement  indeed  that  she  did  not  take  a long 
and  solitary  excursion  through  the  Park,  followed  by 
the  groom  and  Jadwin’s  two  spotted  coach  dogs. 

The  great  organ  terrified  her  at  first.  But  on  closer 
acquaintance  she  came  to  regard  it  as  a vast-hearted, 
sympathetic  friend.  She  already  played  the  piano  very 
well,  and  she  scorned  Jadwin’s  self-playing  “ attach- 
ment.” A teacher  was  engaged  to  instruct  her  in  the 
intricacies  of  stops  and  of  pedals,  and  in  the  difficulties 
of  the  “ echo  ” organ,  “ great  ” organ,  “ choir,”  and 
“ swell.”  So  soon  as  she  had  mastered  these,  Laura 
entered  upon  a new  world  of  delight.  Her  taste  in 
music  was  as  yet  a little  immature — Gounod  and  even 
Verdi  were  its  limitations.  But  to  hear,  responsive  to 
the  lightest  pressures  of  her  finger-tips,  the  mighty  in- 
strument go  thimdering  through  the  cadences  of  the 
“ Anvil  Chorus  ” gave  her  a thrilling  sense  of  power  that 
was  superb. 

The  untrained,  unguided  instinct  of  the  actress  in 
Laura  had  fostered  in  her  a curious  penchant  toward 


A Story  of  Chicago 


213 


melodrama.  She  had  a taste  for  the  magnificent.  She 
revelled  in  these  great  musical  “ effects  ” upon  her  or- 
gan, the  grandiose  easily  appealed  to  her,  while  as  for 
herself,  the  role  of  the  “ grande  dame,”  with  this  won- 
derful house  for  background  and  environment,  came  to 
be  for  her,  quite  unconsciously,  a sort  of  game  in  which 
she  delighted. 

It  was  by  this  means  that,  in  the  end,  she  succeeded 
in  fitting  herself  to  her  new  surroundings.  Innocently 
enough,  and  with  a harmless,  almost  childlike,  affecta- 
tion, she  posed  a little,  and  by  so  doing  found  the  solu- 
tion of  the  incongruity  between  herself — the  Laura  of 
moderate  means  and  quiet  life — and  the  massive  lux- 
ury with  which  she  was  now  surrounded.  Without 
knowing  it,  she  began  to  act  the  part  of  a great  lady — 
and  she  acted  it  well.  She  assumed  the  existence  of 
her  numerous  servants  as  she  assumed  the  fact  of  the 
trees  in  the  park;  she  gave  herself  into  the  hands  of 
her  maid,  not  as  Laura  Jadwin  of  herself  would  have 
done  it,  clumsily  and  with  the  constraint  of  inexperi- 
ence, but  as  she  would  have  done  it  if  she  had  been 
acting  the  part  on  the  stage,  with  an  air,  with  all  the 
nonchalance  of  a marquise,  with — in  fine — all  the  su- 
perb condescension  of  her  “ grand  manner.” 

She  knew  very  well  that  if  she  relaxed  this  hauteur, 
that  her  servants  would  impose  on  her,  would  run  over 
her,  and  in  this  matter  she  found  new  cause  for  wonder 
in  her  husband. 

The  servants,  from  the  frigid  butler  to  the  under 
groom,  adored  Jadwin.  A half-expressed  wish  upon 
his  part  produced  a more  immediate  effect  than  Laura’s 
most  explicit  orders.  He  never  descended  to  famil- 
iarity with  them,  and,  as  a matter  of  fact,  ignored  them 
to  such  an  extent  that  he  forgot  or  confused  their 
names.  But  where  Laura  was  obeyed  with  precise 


214 


The  Pit 


formality  and  chilly  deference,  Jadwin  was  served  with 
obsequious  alacrity,  and  with  a good  humour  that  even 
livery  and  “ correct  form  ” could  not  altogether  con- 
ceal. 

Laura’s  eyes  were  first  opened  to  this  genuine  af- 
fection which  Jadwin  inspired  in  his  servants  by  an  in- 
cident which  occurred  in  the  first  months  of  their 
occupancy  of  the  new  establishment.  One  of  the 
gardeners  discovered  the  fact  that  Jadwin  affected  gar- 
denias in  the  lapel  of  his  coat,  and  thereat  was  at  im- 
mense pains  to  supply  him  with  a fresh  bloom  from 
the  conservatory  each  morning.  The  flower  was  to  be 
placed  at  Jadwin’s  plate,  and  it  was  quite  the  event  of 
the  day  for  the  old  fellow  when  the  master  appeared  on 
the  front  steps  with  the  flower  in  his  coat.  But  a feud 
promptly  developed  over  this  matter  between  the  gar- 
dener and  the  maid  who  took  the  butler’s  place  at 
breakfast  every  morning.  Sometimes  Jadwin  did  not 
get  the  flower,  and  the  gardener  charged  the  maid  with 
remissness  in  forgetting  to  place  it  at  his  plate  after  he 
had  given  it  into  her  hands.  In  the  end  the  affair  be- 
came so  clamourous  that  Jadwin  himself  had  to  inter- 
vene. The  gardener  was  summoned  and  found  to  have 
been  in  fault  only  in  his  eagerness  to  please. 

“ Billy,”  said  Jadwin,  to  the  old  man  at  the  conclu- 
sion of  the  whole  matter,  “ you’re  an  old  fool.” 

And  the  gardener  thereupon  had  bridled  #nd  stam- 
mered as  though  Jadwin  had  conferred  a gift. 

“ Now  if  I had  called  him  ‘ an  old  fool,’  ” observ^ed 
Laura,  “ he  wouFd  have  sulked  the  rest  of  the  week.” 

The  happiest  time  of  the  day  for  Laura  was  the  eve- 
ning. In  the  daytime  she  was  variously  occupied,  but 
her  thoughts  continually  ran  forward  to  the  end  of  the 
day,  when  her  husband  would  be  with  her.  Jadwin 
breakfasted  early,  and  Laura  bore  him  company  no 


215 


A Story  of  Chicago 

I matter  how  late  she  had  stayed  up  the  night  before. 
! By  half-past  eight  he  was  out  of  the  house,  driving 
i down  to  his  office  in  his  buggy  behind  Nip  and  Tuck. 

' By  nine  Laura’s  own  saddle  horse  was  brought  to  the 
! carriage  porch,  and  until  eleven  she  rode  in  the  park. 

At  twelve  she  lunched  with  Page,  and  in  the  afternoon 
I — in  the  “ upstairs  sitting-room  ” — read  her  Browning 
or  her  Meredith,  the  latter  one  of  her  newest  discov- 
eries, till  three  or  four.  Sometimes  after  that  she  went 
out  in  her  carriage.  If  it  was  to  “ shop  ” she  drove  to 
the  “ Rookery,”  in  La  Salle  Street,  after  her  purchases 
were  made,  and  sent  the  footman  up  to  her  husband’s 
office  to  say  that  she  would  take  him  home.  Or  as 
often  as  not  she  called  for  Mrs.  Cressler  or  Aunt  Wess’ 
or  Mrs.  Gretry,  and  carried  them  off  to  some  exhibit 
of  painting,  or  flowers,  or  more  rarely — for  she  had  not 
the  least  interest  in  social  affairs — to  teas  or  receptions. 

But  in  the  evenings,  after  dinner,  she  had  her  hus- 
band to  herself.  Page  was  almost  invariably  occupied 
by  one  or  more  of  her  young  men  in  the  drawing-room, 
but  Laura  and  Jadwin  shut  themselves  in  the  library, 
a lofty  panelled  room — a place  of  deep  leather  chairs, 
tall  bookcases,  etchings,  and  sombre  brasses — and 
1 there,  while  Jadwin  lay  stretched  out  upon  the  broad 
' sofa,  smoking  cigars,  one  hand  behind  his  head,  Laura 
I read  aloud  to  him. 

I His  tastes  in  fiction  were  very  positive.  Laura  at 
first  had  tried  to  introduce  him  to  her  beloved  Mere- 
dith. But  after  three  chapters,  when  he  had  exclaimed, 
“ What’s  the  fool  talking  about  ? ” she  had  given  over 
and  begun  again  from  another  starting-point.  Left  to 
himself,  his  wife  sorrowfully  admitted  that  he  would 
have  gravitated  to  the  “ Mysterious  Island  ” and  “ Mi- 
chael Strogoff,”  or  even  to  “ Mr.  Potter  of  Texas  ” and 
“Mr.  Barnes  of  New  York.”  But  she  had  set  her- 


The  Pit 


i6 


self  to  accomplish  his  literary  education,  so,  Meredith 
failing,  she  took  up  “Treasure  Island”  and  “The 
Wrecker.”  Much  of  these  he  made  her  skip. 

“ Oh,  let’s  get  on  with  the  ‘ story,’  ” he  urged.  But 
Pinkerton  for  long  remained  for  him  an  ideal,  because 
he  was  “ smart  ” and  “ alive.” 

“ I’m  not  long  very  many  of  art,”  he  announced. 
“ But  I believe  that  any  art  that  don’t  make  the  world 
better  and  happier  is  no  art  at  all,  and  is  only  fit  for  th' 
dump  heap.” 

But  at  last  Laura  found  his  abiding  affinity  in 
Howells. 

Nothing  much  happens,”  he  said.  “ But  I hww  all 
those  people.”  He  never  could  rid  himself  of  a sur- 
reptitious admiration  for  Bartley  Hubbard.  He,  too, 
was  “ smart  ” and  “ alive.”  He  had  the  “ get  there  ” 
to  him.  “ Why,”  he  would  say,  “ I know  fifty  boys 
just  like  him  down  there  in  La  Salle  Street.”  Lapham 
he  loved  as  a brother.  Never  a point  in  the  develop- 
ment of  his  character  that  he  missed  or  failed  to  chuckle 
over.  Bromfield  Cory  was  poohed  and  boshed  quite 
out  of  consideration  as  a “ loafer,”  a “ dilletanty,”  but 
Lapham  had  all  his  sympathy. 

“ Yes,  sir,”  he  would  exclaim,  interrupting  the  nar- 
rative, “ that’s  just  it.  That’s  just  what  I would  have 
done  if  I had  been  in  his  place.  Come,  this  chap  knows 
what  he’s  writing  about — not  like  that  IMiddleton  ass, 
with  his  ‘ Dianas  ’ and  ‘ Amazing  Marriages.’*^ 

Occasionally  the  Jadwins  entertained.  Laura’s  hus- 
band was  proud  of  his  house,  and  never  tired  of  show- 
\ing  his  friends  about  it.  Laura  gave  Page  a “ coming- 
out  ” dance,  and  nearly  every  Sunday  the  Cresslers  came 
to  dinner.  But  Aunt  Wess’  could,  at  first,  rarely  be  in- 
duced to  pay  the  household  a visit.  So  much  grandeur 
made  the  little  widow  uneasy,  even  a little  suspicious. 
She  would  shake  her  head  at  Laura»  murmuring; 


r 


A Story  of  Chicago 


217 


“My  word,  it’s  all  very  fine,  but,  dear  me,  Laura,  I hope 
you  do  pay  for  everything  on  the  nail,  and  don’t  run  up 
any  bills.  I don’t  know  what  your  dear  father  would 
say  to  it  all,  no,  I don’t.”  And  she  would  spend  hours 
in  counting  the  electric  bulbs,  which  she  insisted  were 
only  devices  for  some  new-fangled  gas. 

“ Thirty-three  in  this  one  room  alone,”  she  would 
say.  “ I’d  like  to  see  your  dear  husband’s  face  when 
he  gets  his  gas  bill.  And  a dressmaker  that  lives  in  the 
house.  . . . Well, — I don’t  wa^t  to  say  anything.” 

Thus  three  years  had  gone  by.  ^^TThe  new  household 
settled  to  a regime.  Continually  Jadwin  grew  richer. 
His  real  estate  appreciated  in  value ; rents  went  up. 
Every  time  he  speculated  in  wheat,  it  was  upon  a larger 
scale,  and  every  time  he  won.  He  was  a Bear  always, 
and  on  those  rare  occasions  when  he  referred  to  his 
ventures  in  Laura’s  hearing,  it  was  invariably  to  say 
that  prices  were  going  down.  Till  at  last  had  come 
that  spring  when  he  believed  that  the  bottom  had  been 
touched,  had  had  the  talk  with  Gretry,  and  had,  in  se- 
cret, “ turned  Bull,”  with  the  suddenness  of  a strate- 
gist?^ 

The  matter  was  yet  in  Gretry’s  mind  while  the  party 
remained  in  the  art  gallery;  and  as  they  were  return- 
ing to  the  drawing-room  he  detained  Jadwin  an  instant. 

“ If  you  are  set  upon  breaking  your  neck,”  he  said, 
“ you  might  tell  me  at  what  figure  you  want  me  to  buy 
for  you  to-morrow.” 

“ At  the  market,”  returned  Jadwin.  “ I want  to  get 
into  the  thing  quick.” 

A little  later,  when  they  had  all  reassembled  in  the 
drawing-room,  and  while  Mrs.  Gretry  was  telling  an 
interminable  story  of  how  Isabel  had  all  but  asphyxiated 
herself  the  night  before,  a servant  announced  Landry 
Court,  and  the  young  man  entered,  spruce  and  debonair, 
a bouquet  in  one  hand  and  a box  of  candy  in  the  other. 


2i8 


The  Pit 


Some  days  before  this  Page  had  lectured  him  sol- 
emnly on  the  fact  that  he  was  over-absorbed  in  busi- 
ness, and  was  starving  his  soul.  He  should  read  more, 
she  told  him,  and  she  had  said  that  if  he  would  call  upon 
her  on  this  particular  night,  she  would  indicate  a course 
of  reading  for  him. 

So  it  came  about  that,  after  a few  moments’  conver- 
sation with  the  older  people  in  the  drawing-room,  the 
two  adjourned  to  the  library. 

There,  by  way  of  a beginning.  Page  asked  him  what 
was  his  favourite  character  in  fiction.  She  spoke  of  the 
beauty  of  Ruskin’s  thoughts,  of  the  gracefulness  of 
Charles  Lamb’s  style.  The  conversation  lagged  a little. 
Landry,  not  to  be  behind  her,  declared  for  the  modern 
novel,  and  spoke  of  the  “ newest  book.”  But  Page  j 
never  read  new  books  ; she  was  not  interested,  and  their  ' 
talk,  unable  to  establish  itself  upon  a common  ground,  i 
halted,  and  was  in  a fair  way  to  end,  until  at  last,  and  by 
insensible  degrees,  they  began  to  speak  of  themselves 
and  of  each  other.  Promptly  they  were  all  aroused. 
They  listened  to  one  another’s  words  with  studious  at- 
tention, answered  with  ever-ready  promptness,  dis- 
cussed, argued,  agreed,  and  disagreed  over  and  over 
again. 

^Landry  had  said : 

^ When  I was  a boy,  I always  had  an  ambition  to  excel 
all  the  other  boys.  I wanted  to  be  the  best  baseball 
player  on  the  block — and  I was,  too.  I could  pitch  three 
curves  when  I was  fifteen,  and  I find  I am  the  same  now 
that  I am  a man  grown.  When  I do  a thing,  I want  to 
do  it  better  than  any  one  else.  From  the  very  first  I 
have  always  been  ambitious.  It  is  my  strongest  trait. 
Now,”  he  went  on,  turning  to  Page,  “your  strongest 
trait  is  your_thoughtfulness.  You  are  what  they  call 
introspective.”  j 


A Story  of  Chicago  iig 

“ Yes,  yes,”  she  answered.  “ Yes,  I think  so,  too.” 

“ You  don’t  need  the  stimulation  of  competition. 
You  are  at  your  best  when  you  are  with  just  one  per- 
son. A crowd  doesn’t  interest  you.” 

“ I hate  it,”  she  exclaimed. 

“ Now  with  me,  with  a man  of  my  temperament,  a 
crowd  is  a real  inspiration.  When  every  one  is  talking 
and  shouting  around  me,  or  to  me,  even,  my  mind  works 
at  its  best.  But,”  he  added,  solemnly,  “ it  must  be  a 
crowd  of  men.  I can’t  abide  a crowd  of  women.” 

“ They  chatter  so,”  she  assented.  “ I can’t  either.” 

“ But  I find  that  the  companionship  of  one  intelli- 
gent, sympathetic  woman  is  as  much  of  a stimulus  as 
a lot  of  men.  It’s  funny,  isn’t  it,  that  I should  be  like 
that?” 

“ Yes,”  she  said,  “ it  is  funny — strange.  But  I be- 
lieve in  companionship.  I believe  that  between  man 
and  woman  that  is  the  great  thing — companionship. 
Love,”  she  added,  abruptly,  and  then  broke  off  with  a 
deep  sigh.  “ Oh,  I don’t  know,”  she  murmured.  “ Do 
you  remember  those  lines : 

“ Man’s  love  is  of  his  life  a thing  apart, 

’Tis  woman’s  whole  existence. 

Do  you  believe  that  ? ” 

“ Well,”  he  asserted,  gravely,  choosing  his  words  with 
deliberation,  “ it  might  be  so,  but  all  depends  upon  the 
man  and  woman.  Love,”  he  added,  with  tremendous 
gravity,  “ is  the  greatest  power  in  the  universe.” 

“ I have  never  been  in  love,”  said  Page.  “ Yes,  love 
is  a wonderful  power.” 

“ I’ve  never  been  in  love,  either.” 

“ Never,  never  been  in  love  ? ” 

“ Oh,  I’ve  thought  I was  in  love,”  he  said,  with  a wave 
of  his  hand. 


2 20 


The  Pit 


“ I’ve  never  even  thought  I was,”  she  answered,  mus- 
ing. 

“ Do  you  believe  in  early  marriages  ? ” demanded 
Landry. 

“ A man  should  never  marry,”  she  said,  deliberately, 
“ till  he  can  give  his  wife  a good  home,  and  good  clothes 
and — and  that  sort  of  thing.  I do  not  think  I shall 
ever  marry.” 

“You!  Why,  of  course  you  will.  Why  not?” 

“ No,  no.  It  is  my  disposition.  I am  morose  and 
taciturn.  Laura  says  so.” 

Landry  protested  with  vehemence. 

“ And,”  she  w’ent  on,  “ I have  long,  brooding  fits  of 
melancholy.” 

“ Well,  so  have  I,”  he  threw  out  recklessly.  “ At 
night,  sometimes — ^when  I wake  up.  Then  I’m  all  down 
in  the  mouth,  and  I say,  ‘ What’s  the  use,  by  jingo?  ’ ” 

“Do  you  believe  in  pessimism?  I do.  They  say 
Carlyle  was  a terrible  pessimist.” 

“ Well — talking  about  love.  I understand  that  you 
can’t  believe  in  pessimism  and  love  at  the  same  time. 
Wouldn’t  you  feel  unhappy  if  you  lost  your  faith  in 
love?” 

“ Oh,  yes,  terribly.” 

There  was  a moment’s  silence,  and  then  Landrj’  re- 
marked : 

“ Now  you  are  the  kind  of  woman  that  would  only 
love  once,  but  love  for  that  once  mighty  deep  and 
strong.” 

Page’s  eyes  grew  wide.  She  murmured : 

“ ’Tis  a woman’s  whole  existence — whole  existence.’ 
Yes,  I think  I am  like  that.” 

“ Do  you  think  Enoch  Arden  did  right  in  going  away 
after  he  found  them  married  ? ” i 


A Story  of  Chicago 


221 


“ Oh,  have  you  read  that  ? Oh,  isn’t  that  a beauti- 
ful poem?  Wasn’t  he  noble?  Wasn’t  he  grand?  Oh, 
yes,  yes,  he  did  right.” 

“ By  George,  I wouldn’t  have  gone  away.  I’d  have 
gone  right  into  that  house,  and  I would  have  made 
things  hum.  I’d  have  thrown  the  other  fellow  out,  lock, 
stock,  and  barrel.” 

“ That’s  just  like  a man,  so  selfish,  only  thinking  of 
himself.  You  don’t  know  the  meaning  of  love — great, 
true,  unselfish  love.” 

“ I know  the  meaning  of  what’s  mine.  Think  I’d 
give  up  the  woman  I loved  to  another  man  ? ” 

“Even  if  she  loved  the  other  man  best?” 

“ I’d  have  my  girl  first,  and  find  out  how  she  felt 
about  the  other  man  afterwards.” 

“ Oh,  but  think  if  you  gave  her  up,  how  noble  it 
would  be.  You  would  have  sacrificed  all  that  you  held 
the  dearest  to  an  ideal.  Oh,  if  I were  in  Enoch  Arden’s 
place,  and  my  husband  thought  I was  dead,  and  I knew 
he  was  happy  with  another  woman,  it  would  just  be  a 
joy  to  deny  myself,  sacrifice  myself  to  spare  him  un- 
happiness. That  would  be  my  idea  of  love.  Then 
I’d  go  into  a convent.” 

“ Not  much.  I’d  let  the  other  fellow  go  to  the  con- 
vent. If  I loved  a woman,  I wouldn’t  let  anything  in 
the  world  stop  me  from  winning  her.” 

“You  have  so  much  determination,  haven’t  you?” 
she  said,  looking  at  him. 

Landry  enlarged  his  shoulders  a little  and  wagged  his 
head. 

“Well,”  he  said,  “I  don’t  know,  but  I’d  try  pretty 
hard  to  get  what  I wanted,  I guess.” 

“ I love  to  see  that  characteristic  in  men,”  she  ob- 
served. (^^trength,  determination.” 

“Just  as  a man  loves  to  see  a woman  womanly,”  he 


222 


The  Pit 


answered.  “ Don’t  you  hate  strong-minded  women  ? ” 

“ Utterly.” 

“ Now,  you  are  what  I would  call  womanly — the 
womanliest  woman  I’ve  ever  known.” 

“ Oh,  I don’t  know,”  she  protested,  a little  confused. 

“ Yes,  you  are.  You  are  beautifully  womanly — and 
so  high-minded  and  well  read.  It’s  been  inspiring  to 
me.  I want  you  should  know  that.  Yes,  sir,  a real 
inspiration.  It’s  been  inspiring,  elevating,  to  say  the 
least.” 

“ I like  to  read,  if  that’s  what  you  mean,”  she  hastened 
to  say. 

“ By  Jove,  I’ve  got  to  do  some  reading,  too.  It’s 
so  hard  to  find  time.  But  I’ll  make  time.  I’ll  get  that 
‘ Stones  of  Venice  ’ I’ve  heard  you  speak  of,  and  I’ll  sit 
up  nights — and  keep  awake  with  black  coffee — but  I’ll 
read  that  book  from  cover  to  cover.” 

“ That’s  your  determination  again,”  Page  exclaimed. 
“Your  eyes  just  flashed  when  )"Ou  said  it.  I believe  if 
you  once  made  up  your  mind  to  do  a thing,  you  would 
do  it,  no  matter  how  hard  it  was,  wouldn’t  you?  ” 

“ Well,  I’d — I’d  make  things  hum,  I guess,”  he  ad- 
mitted. 

The  next  day  was  Easter  Sunday,  and  Page  came 
down  to  nine  o’clock  breakfast  a little  late,  to  find  Jad- 
win  already  finished  and  deep  in  the  pages  of  the  morn- 
ing paper.  Laura,  still  at  table,  was  pouring  her  last 
cup  of  coffee. 

They  were  in  the  breakfast-room,  a small,  charming 
apartment,  light  and  airy,  and  with  many  windows,  one 
end  opening  upon  the  house  conservatory.  Jadwin  was 
in  his  frock  coat,  which  later  he  would  wear  to  church. 
The  famous  gardenia  wns  in  his  lapel.  He  was  freshly 
shaven,  and  his  fine  cigar  made  a blue  haze  over  his 
head,  Laura  was  radiant  in  a white  morning  gown. 


A Story  of  Chicago  223 

A newly  cut  bunch  of  violets,  large  as  a cabbage,  lay 
on  the  table  before  her. 

The  whole  scene  impressed  itself  sharply  upon  Page’s 
mind — the  fine  sunlit  room,  with  its  gay  open  spaces 
and  the  glimpse  of  green  leaves  from  the  conservatory, 
the  view  of  the  smooth,  trim  lawn  through  the  many 
windows,  where  an  early  robin,  strayed  from  the  park, 
was  chirruping  and  feeding;  her  beautiful  sister  Laura, 
with  her  splendid,  overshadowing  coiffure,  her  pale, 
clear  skin,  her  slender  figure ; Jadwin,  the  large,  solid 
man  of  affairs,  with  his  fine  cigar,  his  gardenia,  his  well- 
groomed  air.  And  then  the  little  accessories  that 
meant  so  much — the  smell  of  violets,  of  good  tobacco, 
of  fragrant  coffee ; the  gleaming  damasks,  china  and 
silver  of  the  breakfast  table ; the  trim,  fresh-looking 
maid,  with  her  white  cap,  apron,  and  cuffs,  who  came 
and  went;  the  thoroughbred  setter  dozing  in  the  sun, 
and  the  parrot  dozing  and  chuckling  to  himself  on  his 
perch  upon  the  terrace  outside  the  window. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  lawn  was  the  stable,  and  upon  the 
concrete  in  front  of  its  wide-open  door  the  groom  was 
currying  one  of  the  carriage  horses.  While  Page  ad- 
dressed herself  to  her  fruit  and  coffee,  Jadwin  put  down 
his  paper,  and,  his  elbows  on  the  arms  of  his  rattan 
chair,  sat  for  a long  time  looking  out  at  the  horse.  By 
and  by  he  got  up  and  said: 

“ That  new  feed  has  filled  ’em  out  in  good  shape. 
Think  Pll  go  out  and  tell  Jarvis  to  try  it  on  the  buggy 
team.”  He  pushed  open  the  French  windows  and  went 
out,  the  setter  sedately  following. 

Page  dug  her  spoon  into  her  grape-fruit,  then  sud- 
denly laid  it  down  and  turned  to  Laura,  her  chin  upon 
her  palm. 

“ Laura,”  she  said,  “ do  you  think  I ought  to  marry — ■ 
a girl  of  my  temperament  ? ” 


224 


The  Pit 


“ Marry?  ” echoed  Laura, 

“ Sh-h  1 ” whispered  Page.  “ Laura — don’t  talk  so 
loud.  Yes,  do  you?  ” 

“Well,  why  not  marry,  dearie?  Why  shouldn’t  you 
marry  when  the  time  comes?  Girls  as  young  as  you 
are  not  supposed  to  have  temperaments.” 

But  instead  of  answering  Page  put  another  question : 

“ Laura,  do  you  think  I am  womanly  ? ” 

“ I think  sometimes.  Page,  that  you  take  your  books 
and  your  reading  too  seriously.  You’ve  not  been  out 
of  the  house  for  three  days,  and  I never  see  you  without 
your  note-books  and  text-books  in  your  hand.  You 
are  at  it,  dear,  from  morning  till  night.  Studies  are  all 
very  well ” 

“ Oh,  studies ! ” exclaimed  Page.  “ I hate  them. 
Laura,  what  is  it  to  be  womanly  ? ” 

“ To  be  womanly?  ” repeated  Laura.  “ Why,  I don’t 
know,  honey.  It’s  to  be  kind  and  well-bred  and  gentle 
mostly,  and  never  to  be  bold  or  conspicuous — and  to 
love  one’s  home  and  to  take  care  of  it,  and  to  love  and 
believe  in  one’s  husband,  or  parents,  or  children — or 
even  one’s  sister — above  any  one  else  in  the  world.” 

“ I think  that  being  womanly  is  better  than  being 
well  read,”  hazarded  Page. 

“ We  can  be  both,  Page,”  Laura  told  her.  “ But, 
honey,  I think  you  had  better  hurry  through  your 
breakfast.  If  we  are  going  to  church  this  Easter,  we 
want  to  get  an  early  start.  Curtis  ordered  the  carriage 
half  an  hour  earlier.” 

“ Breakfast ! ” echoed  Page.  “ I don’t  want  a thing.” 
She  drew  a deep  breath  and  her  eyes  grew  large. 
“ Laura,”  she  began  again  presently,  “ Laura  , . . 

Landry  Court  was  here  last  night,  and — oh,  I don’t 
know,  he’s  so  silly.  But  he  said — well,  he  said  this — 
well,  I said  that  I understood  how  he  felt  about  certain 


A Story  of  Chicago 


225 


things,  about  ‘ getting  on,’  and  being  clean  and  fine 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing  you  know ; and  then  he  said, 
‘ Oh,  you  don’t  know  what  it  means  to  me  to  look  into 
the  eyes  of  a woman  who  really  understands.’  ” 

“ Did  he  ? ” said  Laura,  lifting  her  eyebrows. 

“ Yes,  and  he  seemed  so  fine  and  earnest.  Laura, 
wh — ” Page  adjusted  a hairpin  at  the  back  of  her 
head,  and  moved  closer  to  Laura,  her  eyes  on  the  floor. 
“ Laura — ^what  do  you  suppose  it  did  mean  to  him — ■ 
don’t  you  think  it  was  foolish  of  him  to  talk  like  that  ? ” 

“ Not  at  all,”  Laura  said,  decisively.  “ If  he  said  that 
he  meant  it — meant  that  he  cared  a great  deal  for  you.” 

“ Oh,  I didn’t  mean  that ! ” shrieked  Page.  “ But 
there’s  a great  deal  more  to  Landry  than  I think  we’ve 
suspected.  He  wants  to  be  more  than  a mere  money- 
getting machine,  he  says,  and  he  wants  to  cultivate  his 
mind  and  understand  art  and  literature  and  that.  And 
he  wants  me  to  help  him,  and  I said  I would.  So  if 
you  don’t  mind,  he’s  coming  up  here  certain  nigbts 
every  week,  and  we’re  going  to — I’m  going  to  read  to 
him.  We’re  going  to  begin  with  the  ‘ Ring  and  the 
Book.’  ” 

In  the  later  part  of  May,  the  weather  being  unusually 
hot,  the  Jadwins,  taking  Page  with  them,  went  up  to 
Geneva  Lake  for  the  summer,  and  the  great  house 
fronting  Lincoln  Park  was  deserted. 

Laura  had  hoped  that  now  her  husband  would  be 
able  to  spend  his  entire  time  with  her,  but  in  this  she 
was  disappointed.  At  first  Jadwin  went  down  to  the 
city  but  two  days  a week,  but  soon  this  was  increased 
to  alternate  days.  Gretry  was  a frequent  visitor  at  the 
country  house,  and  often  he  and  Jadwin,  their  rocking- 
chairs  side  by  side  in  a remote  corner  of  the  porch, 
talked  “ business  ” in  low  tones  till  far  into  the  night. 

“ Dear,”  said  Laura,  finally,  “ I’m  seeing  less  and 


15 


226 


The  Pit 


^ess  of  you  every  day,  and  I had  so  looked  forward  to 
this  summer,  when  we  were  to  be  together  all  the  time.” 

“ I hate  it  as  much  as  you  do,  Laura,”  said  her  hus- 
band. “ But  I do  feel  as  though  I ought  to  be  on  the 
spot  just  for  now.  I can’t  get  it  out  of  my  head  that 
we’re  going  to  have  livelier  times  in  a few  months.” 

“ But  even  Mr.  Gretry  says  that  you  don’t  need  to  be 
right  in  your  office  every  minute  of  the  time.  He  says 
you  can  manage  your  Board  of  Trade  business  from 
out  here  just  as  well,  and  that  you  only  go  into  town 
because  you  can’t  keep  away  from  La  Salle  Street  and 
the  sound  of  the  Wheat  Pit.” 

Was  this  true?  Jadwin  himself  had  found  it  diffi- 
cult to  answer.  There  had  been  a time  when  Gretry 
had  been  obliged  to  urge  and  coax  to  get  his  friend  to 
so  much  as  notice  the  swirl  of  the  great  maelstrom  in 
the  Board  of  Trade  Building.  But  of  late  Jadwin’s  eye 
and  ear  were  forever  turned  thitherward,  and  it  was  he, 
and  no  longer  Gretry,  who  took  initiatives. 

Meanwhile  he  was  making  money.  As  he  had  pre- 
dicted, the  price  of  wheat  had  advanced.  May  had  been 
a fair-weather  month  with  easy  prices,  the  monthly 
Government  report  showing  no  loss  in  the  condition  of 
the  crop.  Wheat  had  gone  up  from  sixty  to  sixty-six 
cents,  and  at  a small  profit  Jadwin  had  sold  some  two 
hundred  and  fifty  thousand  bushels.  Then  had  come 
the  hot  weather  at  the  end  of  May.  On  the  floor  of  the 
Board  of  Trade  the  Pit  traders  had  begun  to  peel  off 
their  coats.  It  began  to  look  like  a hot  June,  and  when 
cash  wheat  touched  sixty-eight,  Jadwin,  now  more  than 
ever  convinced  of  a coming  Bull  market,  bought  another 
five  hundred  thousand  bushel^ 

This  line  he  added  to  in  June.  Unfavorable  weather 
— excessive  heat,  followed  by  flooding  rains — had  hurt 
the  spring  wheat,  and  in  every  direction  there  w’ere 


227 


A Story  of  Chicago 

complaints  of  weevils  and  chinch  bugs.  Later  on  other 
deluges  had  discoloured  and  damaged  the  winter  crop. 
Jadwin  was  now,  by  virtue  of  his  recent  purchases, 
“ long  ” one  million  bushels,  and  the  market  held  firm 
at  seventy-two  cents — a twelve-cent  advance  in  two 
months, 

“ She’ll  react,”  warned  Gretry,  “ sure.  Crookes  and 
Sweeny  haven’t  taken  a hand  yet.  Look  out  for  a 
heavy  French  crop.  We’ll  get  reports  on  it  soon  now. 
You’re  playing  with  a gun,  J.,  that  kicks  further  than 
it  shoots.” 

“ We’ve  not  shot  her  yet,”  Jadwin  said.  “ We’re 
only  just  loading  her — for  Bears,”  he  added,  with  a wink. 

In  July  came  the  harvesting  returns  from  all  over 
the  country,  proving  conclusively  that  for  the  first  time 
in  six  years,  the  United  States  crop  was  to  be  small  and 
poor.  The  yield  was  moderate.  Only  part  of  it  could 
be  graded  as  “ contract.”  Good  wheat  would  be  valu- 
able from  now  on.  Jadwin  bought  again,  and  again 
it  was  a “ lot  ” of  half  a million  bushels. 

Then  came  the  first  manifestation  of  that  marvellous 
golden  luck  that  was  to  follow  Curtis  Jadwin  through  all 
the  coming  months.  The  French  wheat  crop  was  an- 
nounced as  poor.  In  Germany  the  yield  was  to  be  far 
below  the  normal.  All  through  Hungary  the  potato 
and  rye  crops  were  light. 

About  the  middle  of  the  month  Jadwin  again  called 
the  broker  to  his  country  house,  and  took  'him  for  a 
long  evening’s  trip  around  the  lake,  aboard  the  “ The- 
tis.” They  were  alone.  MacKenny  was  at  the  wheel, 
and,  seated  on  camp  stools  In  the  stern  of  the  little  boat, 
Jadwin  outlined  his  plans  for  the  next  few  months. 

“ Sam,”  he  said,  “ I thought  back  In  April  there  that 
we  were  to  touch  top  prices  about  the  first  of  this 
month,  but  this  French  and  German  news  has  coloured 


228 


The  Pit 


the  cat  different.  I’ve  been  figuring  that  I would  get 
out  of  this  market  around  the  seventies,  but  she’s  going 
higher.  I’m  going  to  hold  on  yet  awhile.” 

“ You  do  it  on  your  own  responsibility,  then,”  said 
the  broker.  “ I warn  you  the  price  is  top  heavy.” 

“Not  much.  Seventy-two  cents  is  too  cheap.  Now  I’m 
going  into  this  hard ; and  I want  to  have  my  own  lines 
out — to  be  independent  of  the  trade  papers  that  Crookes 
could  buy  up  any  time  he  wants  to.  I want  you  to  get 
me  some  good,  reliable  correspondents  in  Europe ; 
smart,  bright  fellows  that  we  can  depend  on.  I want 
one  in  Liverpool,  one  in  Paris,  and  one  in  Odessa,  and 
I want  them  to  cable  us  about  the  situation  every  day.” 

Gretry  thought  a while. 

“ Well,”  he  said,  at  length,  “ . . . yes.  I guess  I 

can  arrange  it.  I can  get  you  a good  man  in  Liver- 
pool— Traynard  is  his  name — and  there’s  two  or  three 
in  Paris  we  could  pick  up.  Odessa — I don’t  know.  I 
couldn’t  say  just  this  minute.  But  I’ll  fix  it.” 

These  correspondents  began  to  report  at  the  end  of 
July.  All  over  Europe  the  demand  for  wheat  was  active. 
Grain  handlers  were  not  only  buying  freely,  but  were 
contracting  for  future  delivery.  In  August  came  the 
first  demands  for  American  wheat,  scattered  and  spo- 
radic at  first,  then  later,  a little,  a very  little  more  in- 
sistent. 

Thus  the  summer  wore  to  its  end.  The  fall  “ situa- 
tion ” began  slowly  to  define  itself,  with  eastern  Eu- 
rope— densely  populated,  overcrowded — commencing 
to  show  uneasiness  as  to  its  supply  of  food  for  the  win- 
ter; and  with  but  a moderate  crop  in  America  to  meet 
foreign  demands.  Russia,  the  United  States,  and  Ar- 
gentine would  have  to  feed  the  world  during  the  next 
twelve  months. 

Over  the  Chicago  Wheat  Pit  the  hand  of  the  great 


229 


A Story  of  Chicago 

indicator  stood  at  seventy-five  cents.  Jadwin  sold  out  his 
September  wheat  at  this  figure,  and  then  in  a single  vast 
clutch  bought  three  million  bushels  of  the  December 
option. 

hNever  before  had  he  ventured  so  deeply  into  the  Pit. 
Never  before  had  he  committed  himself  so  irrevocably 
to  the  send  of  the  current.  But  something  was  prepar- 
ing. Something  indefinite  and  huge.  He  guessed  it, 
felt  it,  knew  it.  On  all  sides  of  him  he  felt  a quicken- 
ing movement.  Lethargy,  inertia  were  breaking  up. 
There  was  buoyancy  to  the  current.  In  its  ever-in- 
creasing swiftness  there  was  exhilaration  and  exuber- 
ance. 

And  he  was  upon  the  crest  of  the  wave.  Now  the 
forethought,  the  shrewdness,  and  the  prompt  action  of 
those  early  spring  days  were  beginning  to  tell.  Con- 
fident, secure,  unassailable,  Jadwin  plunged  in.  Every 
week  the  swirl  of  the  Pit  increased  in  speed,  every  week 
the  demands  of  Europe  for  American  wheat  grew  more 
frequent ; and  at  the  end  of  the  month  the  price — which 
had  fluctuated  between  seventy-five  and  seventy-eight 
— in  a sudden  flurry  rushed  to  seventy-nine,  to  seventy- 
nine  and  a half,  and  closed,  strong,  at  the  even  eighty 
cents. 

On  the  day  when  the  latter  figure  was  reached  Jad- 
win  bought  a seat  upon  the  Board  of  Trade. 

He  was  now  no  longer  an  “ outsider.'^ 


VII 


One  morning  in  November  of  the  same  year  Laura 
joined  her  husband  at  breakfast,  preoccupied  and  a 
little  grave,  her  mind  full  of  a subject  about  which,  she 
told  herself,  she  could  no  longer  keep  from  speaking. 
So  soon  as  an  opportunity  presented  itself,  which  was 
when  Jadwin  laid  down  his  paper  and  drew  his  coffee- 
cup  towards  him,  Laura  exclaimed : 

“ Curtis.” 

“ Well,  old  girl?” 

“ Curtis,  dear,  . . , when  is  it  all  going  to  end — ■ 

your  speculating?  You  never  used  to  be  this  way.  It 
seems  as  though,  nowadays,  I never  had  you  to  my- 
self. Even  when  you  are  not  going  over  papers  and 
reports  and  that,  or  talking  by  the  hour  to  Mr.  Gretry 
in  the  library — even  when  you  ar-e  not  doing  all  that, 
your  mind  seems  to  be  away  from  me — down  there  in 
La  Salle  Street  or  the  Board  of  Trade  Building. 
Dearest,  you  don’t  know.  I don’t  mean  to  complain, 
and  I don’t  want  to  be  exacting  or  selfish,  but — some- 
times I — I am  'lonesome.  Don’t  interrupt,”  she  said, 
hastily.  “ I want  to  say  it  all  at  once,  and  then  never 
speak  of  it  again.  Last  night,  when  Mr.  Gretry  was 
here,  you  said,  just  after  dinner,  that  you  would  be  all 
through  your  talk  in  an  hour.  And  I waited.  . . . 

I waited  till  eleven,  and  then  I went  to  bed.  Dear  I — I 
— I was  lonesome.  The  evening  was  so  long.  I had 
put  on  my  very  prettiest  gown,  the  one  you  said  you 
liked  so  much,  and  you  never  seemed  to  notice.  You 
told  me  Mr.  Gretry  was  going  by  nine,  and  I had  it 
all  planned  how  we  would  spend  the  evening  together.” 


231 


A Story  of  Chicago 

But  she  got  no  further.  Her  husband  had  taken  her 
in  his  arms,  and  had  interrupted  her  words  with  blus- 
tering exclamations  of  self-reproach  and  self-condem- 
nation. He  was  a brute,  he  cried,  a senseless,  selfish 
ass,  who  had  no  right  to  such  a wife,  who  was  not  worth 
a single  one  of  the  tears  that  by  now  were  trembling 
on  Laura’s  lashes. 

“ Now  we  won’t  speak  of  it  again,”  she  began.  “ I 
suppose  I am  selfish ” 

“ Selfish,  nothing ! ” he  exclaimed.  “ Don’t  talk  that 
way.  I’m  the  one ” 

“ But,”  Laura  persisted,  “ some  time  you  will — get 
out  of  this  speculating  for  good?  Oh,  I do  look  for- 
ward to  it  so ! And,  Curtis,  what  is  the  use?  We’re  so 
rich  now  we  can’t  spend  our  money.  What  do  you 
want  to  make  more  for  ? ” 

“ Oh,  it’s  not  the  money,”  he  answered.  “ It’s  the 
fun  of  the  thing ; the  excitement ” 

“ That’s  just  it,  the  ‘ excitement.’  You  don’t  know, 
Curtis.  It  is  changing  you.  You  are  so  nervous  some- 
times, and  sometimes  you  don’t  listen  to  me  when  I 
talk  to  you.  I can  just  see  what’s  in  your  mind.  It’s 
wheat — ^wheat — ^wheat,  wheat — wheat — wheat,  all  the 
time.  Oh,  if  you  knew  how  I hated  and  feared  it!  ” 

“ Well,  old  girl,  that  settles  it.  I wouldn’t  make  you 
unhappy  a single  minute  for  all  the  wheat  in  the  world.” 

“ And  you  will  stop  speculating?  ” 

“Well,  I can’t  pull  out  all  in  a moment,  but  just  as 
soon  as  a chance  comes  I’ll  get  out  of  the  market.  At 
any  rate,  I won’t  have  any  business  of  mine  come  be- 
tween us.  I don’t  like  it  any  more  than  you  do.  Why, 
how  long  is  it  since  we’ve  read  any  book  together,  like 
we  used  to  when  you  read  aloud  to  me  ? ” 

“ Not  since  we  came  back  from  the  country.” 

“ By  George,  that’s  so,  that’s  so.”  He  shook  his 


232 


The  Pit 


head.  “ I’ve  got  to  taper  off.  You’re  right,  Laura, 
But  you  don’t  know,  you  haven’t  a guess  how  this  trad- 
ing in  wheat  gets  a hold  of  you.  And,  then,  what  am 
I to  do?  What  are  we  fellows,  who  have  made  our  |] 
money,  to  do?  I’ve  got  to  be  busy.  I can’t  sit  down  I 
and  twiddle  my  thumbs.  And  I don’t  believe  in  loung-  I 
ing  around  clubs,  or  playing  with  race  horses,  or  mur-  i 
dering  game  birds,  or  running  some  poor, helpless  fox  to 
death.  Speculating  seems  to  be  about  the  only  game, 
or  the  only  business  that’s  left  open  to  me — that  ap- 
pears to  be  legitimate.  I know  I’ve  gone  too  far  into 
it,  and  I promise  you  I’ll  quit.  But  it’s  fine  fun.  When 
you  know  how  to  swing  a deal,  and  can  look  ahead, 
a little  further  than  the  other  fellows,  and  can  take 
chances  they  daren’t,  and  plan  and  manoeuvre,  and  then 
see  it  all  come  out  just  as  you  had  known  it  would  all 
along — I tell  you  it’s  absorbing.” 

“ But  you  never  do  tell  me,”  she  objected.  “ I never 
know  what  you  are  doing.  I hear  through  Mr.  Court 
or  Mr.  Gretry,  but  never  through  you.  Don’t  you 
think  you  could  trust  me?  I want  to  enter  into  your 
life  on  its  every  side,  Curtis.  Tell  me,”  she  suddenly 
demanded,  “ what  are  you  doing  now?  ” 

“ Very  well,  then,”  he  said,  “ I’ll  tell  you.  Of  course 
you  mustn’t  speak  about  it.  It’s  nothing  very  secret, 
but  it’s  always  as  well  to  keep  quiet  about  these  things.” 

She  gave  her  word,  and  leaned  her  elbows  on  the 
table,  prepared  to  listen  intently.  Jadwin  crushed  a 
lump  of  sugar  against  the  inside  of  his  coffee  cup. 

“ Well,”  he  began,  “ I’ve  not  been  doing  anything 
very  exciting,  except  to  buy  wheat.” 

“What  for?” 

“ To  sell  again.  You  see,  I’m  one  of  those  who  be- 
lieve that  wheat  is  going  up.  I was  the  very  first  to 
see  it,  I guess,  way  back  last  April.  Now  in  August 


A Story  of  Chicago  233 

this  year,  while  we  were  up  at  the  lake,  I bought  three 
million  bushels.” 

“ Three — million — bushels  ! ” she  murmured.  “ Why, 
what  do  you  do  with  it  ? Where  do  you  put  it  ? ” 

He  tried  to  explain  that  he  had  merely  bought  the 
right  to  call  for  the  grain  on  a certain  date,  but  she 
! could  not  understand  this  very  clearly. 

I “ Never  mind,”  she  told  him,  “ go  on.” 

“ Well,  then,  at  the  end  of  August  we  found  out  that 
the  wet  weather  in  England  would  make  a short  crop 
there,  and  along  in  September  came  the  news  that  Si- 
beria would  not  raise  enough  to  supply  the  southern 
provinces  of  Russia.  That  left  only  the  United  States 
and  the  Argentine  Republic  to  feed  pretty  much  the 
whole  world.  Of  course  that  would  make  wheat  valu- 
I able.  Seems  to  be  a short-crop  year  everywhere.  I 
I saw  that  wheat  would  go  higher  and  higher,  so  I bought 
; another  million  bushels  in  October,  and  another  early 
' in  this  month.  That’s  all.  You  see,  I figure  that  pretty 
soon  those  people  over  in  England  and  Italy  and  Ger- 
many— the  people  that  eat  wheat — will  be  willing  to 
pay  us  in  America  big  prices  for  it,  because  it’s  so  hard 
to  get.  They’ve  got  to  have  the  wheat — it’s  bread  ’n’ 
P' butter  to  them.” 

“ Oh,  then  why  not  give  it  to  them  ? ” she  cried. 

I “ Give  it  to  those  poor  people — your  five  million  bush- 
> els.  Why,  that  would  be  a godsend  to  them.” 

Jadwin  stared  a moment. 

“ Oh,  that  isn’t  exactly  how  it  works  out,”  he  said. 

Before  he  could  say  more,  however,  the  maid  came 
I in  and  handed  to  Jadwin  three  despatches. 

“ Now  those,”  said  Laura,  when  the  servant  had  gone 
out,  “ you  get  those  every  morning.  Are  those  part  of 
your  business?  What  do  they  say?  ” 

“ I’ll  read  them  to  you,”  he  told  her  as  he  slit  the 


The  Pit 


234 

first  envelopes.  “ They  are  cablegrams  from  agents  of 
mine  in  Europe.  Gretry  arranged  to  have  them  sent 
to  me.  Here  now,  this  is  from  Odessa.  It’s  in  cipher,  7 
but  ” — he  drew  a narrow  memorandum-book  from  his 
breast  pocket — “ I’ll  translate  it  for  you.” 

He  turned  the  pages  of  the  key  book  a few  moments,  • 
jotting  down  the  translation  on  the  back  of  an  envel- 
ope with  the  gold  pencil  at  the  end  of  his  watch  chain. 

“ Here’s  how  it  reads,”  he  said  at  last.  “ ‘ Cash  wheat  r 
advanced  one  cent  bushel  on  Liverpool  buying,  stock 
light.  Shipping  to  interior.  European  price  not  at- 
tractive to  sellers.” 

“ What  does  that  mean?”  she  asked. 

“ Well,  that  Russia  will  not  export  wheat,  that  she  ' 
has  no  more  than  enough  for  herself,  so  that  Western 
Europe  will  have  to,  look  to  us  for  her  wheat.” 

“ And  the  others  ? Read  those  to  me.” 

Again  Jadwin  translated. 

“ This  is  from  Paris  : 

“ ‘ Answer  on  one  million  bushels  wheat  in  your 
market — stocks  lighter  than  expected,  and  being  cleared 
up.’  ” 

“ Which  is  to  say?  ” she  queried. 

“ They  want  to  know  how  much  I would  ask  for  a mil- 
lion bushels.  They  find  it  hard  to  get  the  stuff  over 
there — ^just  as  I said  they  would.” 

“ Will  you  sell  it  to  them?  ” 

“ Maybe.  I’ll  talk  to  Sam  about  it.^ 

“ And  now  the  last  one.” 

“ It’s  from  Liverpool,  and  Liverpool,  you  must  under- 
stand, is  the  great  buyer  of  wheat.  It’s  a tremendously  , 
influential  place.”  ( 

He  began  once  more  to  consult  the  key  book,  one  1 
finger  following  the  successive  code  words  of  the  des-  ' 
patch. 


A Story  of  Chicago 


235 


Laura,  watching  him,  saw  his  eyes  suddenly  contract, 
“ By  George,”  he  muttered,  all  at  once,  “ by  George, 
what’s  this  ? ” 

! “ What  is  it  ? ” she  demanded.  “ Is  it  important  ? ” 

But  all-absorbed,  Jadwin  neither  heard  nor  re- 
sponded. Three  times  he  verified  the  same  word. 

“ Oh,  please  tell  me,”  she  begged. 

Jadwin  shook  his  head  impatiently  and  held  up  a 
warning  hand. 

“ Wait,  wait,”  he  said.  “ Wait  a minute.” 

Word  for  word  he  wrote  out  the  translation  of  the 
cablegram,  and  then  studied  it  intently. 

“ That’s  it,”  he  said,  at  last.  Then  he  got  to  his  feet. 
“ I guess  I’ve  had  enough  breakfast,”  he  declared.  He 
looked  at  his  watch,  touched  the  call  bell,  and  when  the 
maid  appeared  said: 

“ Tell  Jarvis  to  bring  the  buggy  around  right  away.” 
“ But,  dear,  what  is  it?  ” repeated  Laura.  “ You  said 
you  would  tell  me.  You  see,”  she  cried,  “ it’s  just  as  I 
said.  You’ve  forgotten  my  very  existence.  When  it’s 
a question  of  wheat  I count  for  nothing.  And  just  now, 
when  you  read  the  despatch  to  yourself,  you  were  all 
different;  such  a look  came  into  your  face,  so  cruelly 
eager,  and  triumphant  and  keen ” 

“ You’d  be  eager,  too,”  he  exclaimed,  “ if  you  under- 
stood. Look;  read  it  for  yourself.” 

He  thrust  the  cable  into  her  hands.  Over  each  code 
word  he  had  written  its  translation,  and  his  wife  read : 

“ Large  firms  here  short  and  in  embarrassing  posi- 
tion, owing  to  curtailment  in  Argentine  shipments. 
Can  negotiate  for  five  million  wheat  if  price  satisfac- 
tory.” 

“Well?”  she  asked. 

“ Well,  don’t  you  see  what  that  means  ? It’s  the  * Eu- 
ropean demand  ’ at  last.  They  must  have  wheat,  and 


236 


The  Pit 


I’ve  got  It  to  give  ’em — ^wheat  that  I bought,  oh,  at 
seventy  cents,  some  of  it,  and  they’ll  pay  the  market— 
that  is,  eighty  cents,  for  it.  Oh,  they’ll  pay  more. 
They’ll  pay  eighty-two  if  I want  ’em  to.  France  is  after 
the  stuff,  too.  Remember  that  cable  from  Paris  I just 
read.  They’d  bid  against  each  other.  Why,  if  I pull 
this  off,  if  this  goes  through — and,  by  George,”  he  went 
on,  speaking  as  much  to  himself  as  to  her,  new  phases 
of  the  affair  presenting  themselves  to  him  at  every  mo- 
ment, “ by  George,  I don’t  have  to  throw  this  wheat 
into  the  Pit  and  break  down  the  price — and  Gretry 
has  understandings  with  the  railroads,  through  the 
elevator  gang,  so  we  get  big  rebates.  Why,  this  wheat 
is  worth  eighty-two  cents  to  them — and  then  there’s 
this  ‘ curtailment  in  Argentine  shipments.’  That’s  the 
first  word  we’ve  had  about  small  crops  there.  Holy 
Moses,  if  the  Argentine  crop  is  off,  wheat  will  knock 
the  roof  clean  off  the  Board  of  Trade ! ” The  maid 
reappeared  in  the  doorway.  “ The  buggy  ? ” queried  | 
Jadwin.  “ All  right.  I’m  off,  Laura,  and — until  it’s  \ 
over  keep  quiet  about  all  this,  you  know.  Ask  me  to  I 
read  you  some  more  cables  some  dayi  It  brings  good  1 
luck.”  I 

He  gathered  up  his  despatches  and  the  mail  and  was  I 
gone.  Laura,  left  alone,  sat  looking  out  of  the  win-  !, 
dow  a long  moment.  She  heard  the  front  door  close, 
and  then  the  sound  of  the  horses’  hoofs  on  the  asphalt 
by  the  carriage  porch.  They  died  down,  ceased,  and  all 
at  once  a great  silence  seemed  to  settle  over  the  house. 
Laura  sat  thinking.  At  last  she  rose. 

^ “ It  is  the  first  time,”  she  said  to  herself,  “ that  Curtis  ■ 

ever  forgot  to  kiss  me  good-by.”  | 

The  day,  for  all  that  the  month  was  December,  was  < 
fine.  The  sun  shone;  under  foot  the  ground  was  dry  | 
and  hard.  The  snow  which  had  fallen  ten  days  before 


237 


! A Story  of  Chicago 

1 was  practically  gone.  In  fine,  it  was  a perfect  day  for 
- jriding.  Laura  called  her  maid  and  got  into  her  habit, 
t The  groom  with  his  own  horse  and  “ Crusader  ” were 
; jwaiting  for  her  when  she  descended. 

; j That  forenoon  Laura  rode  further  and  longer  than 
I 'usual.  Preoccupied  at  first,  her  mind  burdened  with 
, vague  anxieties,  she  nevertheless  could  not  fail  to  be 
[aroused  and  stimulated  by  the  sparkle  and  efferves- 
cence of  the  perfect  morning,  and  the  cold,  pure  glitter 
|of  Lake  Michigan,  green  with  an  intense  mineral  hue, 
dotted  with  whitecaps,  and  flashing  under  the  morn- 
ling  sky.  Lincoln  Park  was  deserted  and  still ; a blue 
jhaze  shrouded  the  distant  masses  of  leafless  trees,  where 
the  gardeners  were  burning  the  heaps  of  leaves.  Under 
her  the  thoroughbred  moved  with  an  ease  and  a freedom 
[that  were  superb,  throwing  back  one  sharp  ear  at  her 
lightest  word;  his  rippling  mane  caressed  her  hand  and 
forearm,  and  as  she  looked  down  upon  his  shoulder 
■ she  could  see  the  long,  slender  muscles,  working 
smoothly,  beneath  the  satin  sheen  of  the  skin.  At  the 
[water  works  she  turned  into  the  long,  straight  road 
[that  leads  to  North  Lake,  and  touched  Crusader  with 
I the  crop,  checking  him  slightly  at  the  same  time. 

I With  a little  toss  of  his  head  he  broke  from  a trot  into 
I'a  canter,  and  then,  as  she  leaned  forward  in  the  saddle, 
into  his  long,  even  gallop.  There  was  no  one  to  see ; 
[she  would  not  be  conspicuous,  so  Laura  gave  the  horse 
his  head,  and  in  another  moment  he  was  carrying  her 
swith  a swiftness  that  brought  the  water  to  her  eyes, 
land  that  sent  her  hair  flying  from  her  face.  She 
had  him  completely  under  control.  A touch  upon  the 
bit,  she  knew,  would  suffice  to  bring  him  to  a stand- 
still. She  knew  him  to  be  without  fear  and  without 
j nerves,  knew  that  his  every  instinct  made  for  her  safety, 
and  that  this  morning’s  gallop  was  as  much  a pleasure 


238 


The  Fit 


to  him  as  to  his  rider.  Beneath  her  and  around  her  the 
roadway  and  landscape  flew;  the  cold  air  sang  in  her  ■ 
ears  and  whipped  a faint  colour  to  her  pale  cheeks; 
in  her  deep  brown  eyes  a frosty  sparkle  came  and  went,  ^ 
and  throughout  all  her  slender  figure  the  blood  raced 
spanking  and  careering  in  a full,  strong  tide  of  health 
and  gaiety. 

She  made  a circle  around  North  Lake,  and  came  back 
by  way  of  the  Linne  monument  and  the  Palm  House, 
Crusader  ambling  quietly  by  now,  the  groom  trot- 
ting stolidly  in  the  rear.  Throughout  all  her  ride  she 
had  seen  no  one  but  the  park  gardeners  and  the  single 
grey-coated,  mounted  policeman  whom  she  met  each 
time  she  rode,  and  who  always  touched  his  helmet  to 
her  as  she  cantered  past.  Possibly  she  had  grown  a 
little  careless  in  looking  out  for  pedestrians  at  the  cross- 
ings, for  as  she  turned  eastward  at  the  La  Salle  statue, 
she  all  but  collided  with  a gentleman  who  was  travers- 
ing the  road  at  the  same  time. 

She  brought  her  horse  to  a standstill  with  a little  • 
start  of  apprehension,  and  started  again  as  she  saw  that 
the  gentleman  was  Sheldon  Corthell. 

“ Well,”  she  cried,  taken  all  aback,  unable  to  think 
of  formalities,  and  relapsing  all  at  once  into  the  young 
girl  of  Barrington,  Massachusetts,  “ well,  I never — of 
all  the  people.” 

But,  no  doubt,  she  had  been  more  in  his  mind  than 
he  in  hers,  and  a meeting  with  her  was  for  him  an 
eventuality  not  at  all  remote.  There  was  more  of 
pleasure  than  of  embarrassment  in  that  first  look  in 
which  he  recognised  the  wife  of  Curtis  Jadwin. 

The  artist  had  changed  no  whit  in  the  four  years  | 
since  last  she  had  seen  him.  He  seemed  as  young  as 
ever;  there  was  the  same  “elegance”  to  his  figure;  1 
his  hands  were  just  as  long  and  slim  as  ever;  his  black 


239 


A Story  of  Chicago 


beard  was  no  less  finely  pointed,  and  the  mustaches 
were  brushed  away  from  his  lips  in  the  same  French 
style  that  she  remembered  he  used  to  affect.  He  was, 

•I  as  always,  carefully  dressed.  He  wore  a suit  of  tweeds 
f of  a foreign  cut,  but  no  overcoat,  a cloth  cap  of  green- 
ish plaid  was  upon  his  head,  his  hands  were  gloved  in 
dogskin,  and  under  his  arm  he  carried  a slender  cane 
of  varnished  brown  bamboo.  The  only  unconvention- 
ality in  his  dress  was  the  cravat,  a great  bow  of  black 
silk  that  overflowed  the  lapels  of  his  coat. 

iBut  she  had  no  more  than  time  to  register  a swift 
impression  of  the  details,  when  he  came  quickly  for- 
ward, one  hand  extended,  the  other  holding  his  cap. 

“ I cannot  tell  you  how  glad  I am,”  he  exclaimed, 
j It  was  the  old  Corthell  beyond  doubting  or  denial. 
Not  a single  inflection  of  his  low-pitched,  gently  modu- 
lated voice  was  wanting ; not  a single  infinitesimal 
mannerism  was  changed,  even  to  the  little  tilting  of  the 
chin  when  he  spoke,  or  the  quick  winking  of  the  eye- 
: lids,  or  the  smile  that  narrowed  the  corners  of  the  eyes 

I themselves,  or  the  trick  of  perfect  repose  of  his  whole 
body.  Even  his  handkerchief,  as  always,  since  first  she 
had  known  him,  was  tucked  into  his  sleeve  at  the  wrist. 

“ And  so  you  are  back  again,”  she  cried.  “ And  when, 
and  how  ? ” ' 

I'  “ And  so — yes — so  I am  back  again,”  he  repeated,  as 

<hey  shook  hands.  “ Only  day  before  yesterday,  and 
: quite  surreptitiously.  No  one  knows  yet  that  I am 
' here.  I crept  in — or  my  train  did — under  the  cover  of 
; night.  I have  come  straig*ht  from  Tuscany.” 

I “ From  Tuscany?  ” 

I “ and  gardens  and  marble  pergolas.” 

“ Now  why  any  one  should  leave  Tuscan  gardens 
and — and  all  that  kind  of  thing  for  a winter  in  Chicago, 
i I cannot  see,”  she  said. 


240 


The  Pit 


“ It  is  a little  puzzling,”  he  answered.  “ But  I fancy 
that  my  gardens  and  pergolas  and  all  the  rest  had  come 
to  seem  to  me  a little — as  the  French  would  put  it — ' 
malle.  I began  to  long  for  a touch  of  our  hard,  harsh 
city  again.  Harshness  has  its  place,  I think,  if  it  is  only 
to  cut  one’s  teeth  on.” 

Laura  looked  down  at  him,  smiling. 

“ I should  have  thought  you  had  cut  yours  long  ago,” 
she  said. 

“ Not  my  wisdom  teeth,”  he  urged.  “ I feel  now  that 
I have  come  to  that  time  of  life  when  it  is  expedient 
to  have  wisdom.” 

“ I have  never  known  that  feeling,”  she  confessed, 
“ and  I live  in  the  ‘ hard,  harsh  ’ city.” 

“ Oh,  that  is  because  you  have  never  known  what  it 
meant  not  to  have  wisdom,”  he  retorted.  “ Tell  me 
about  everybody,”  he  went  on.  “ Your  husband,  he  is 
well,  of  course,  and  distressfully  rich.  I heard  of  him 
in  New  York.  And  Page,  our  little,  solemn  Minerva  of 
Dresden  china?  ” 

“ Oh,  yes.  Page  is  well,  but  you  will  hardly  recognise 
her;  such  a young  lady  nowadays.” 

“ And  Mr.  Court,  ' Landry  ’ ? I remember  he  always 
impressed  me  as  though  he  had  just  had  his  hair  cut; 
and  the  Cresslers,  and  Mrs.  Wessels,  and ” 

“ All  well.  Mrs.  Cressler  will  be  delighted  to  hear 
you  are  back.  Yes,  everybody  is  well.” 

“And,  last  of  all,  Mrs.  Jadwin?  But  I needn’t  ask; 
I can  see  how  well  and  happy  you  are.” 

“ And  Mr.  Corthell,”  she  queried,  “ is  also  well  and 
happy?  ” 

“ Mr.  Corthell,”  he  responded,  “ is  very  well,  and — 
tolerably — happy,  thank  you.  One  has  lost  a few  illu- 
sions, but  has  managed  to  keep  enough  to  grow  old 
on.  One’s  latter  days  are  provided  for.” 


A Story  of  Chicago 


241 


“ I shouldn’t  imagine,”  she  told  him,  “ that  one  lost 
illusions  in  Tuscan  gardens.” 

“ Quite  right,”  he  hastened  to  reply,  smiling  cheer- 
fully. “ One  lost  no  illusions  in  Tuscany.  One  went 
there  to  cherish  the  few  that  yet  remained.  But,”  he 
added,  without  change  of  manner,  “ one  begins  to  be- 
lieve that  even  a lost  illusion  can  be  very  beautiful 
sometimes — even  in  Chicago.” 

“ I want  you  to  dine  with  us,”  said  Laura.  “ You’ve 
hardly  met  my  husband,  and  I think  you  will  like  some 
of  our  pictures.  I will  have  all  your  old  friends  there, 
the  Cresslers  and  Aunt  Wess’  and  all.  When  can  you 
come?  ” 

“ Oh,  didn’t  you  get  my  note  ? ” he  asked.  “ I wrote 
you  yesterday,  asking  if  I might  call  to-night.  You 
see,  I am  only  in  Chicago  for  a couple  of  days.  I must 
go  on  to  St.  Louis  to-morrow,  and  shall  not  be  back 
for  a week.” 

“Note?  No,  I’ve  had  no  note  from  you.  Oh,  I 
know  what  happened.  Curtis  left  in  a hurry  this  morn- 
ing, and  he  swooped  all  the  mail  into  his  pocket 
the  last  moment.  I knew  some  of  my  letters  were 
with  his.  There’s  where  your  note  went.  But,  never 
mind,  it  makes  no  difference  now  that  we’ve  met.  Yes, 
by  all  means,  come  to-night — to  dinner.  We’re  not  a 
bit  formal.  Curtis  won’t  have  it.  We  dine  at  six ; and 
I’ll  try  to  get  the  others.  Oh,  but  Page  won’t  be  there, 
I forgot.  She  and  Landry  Court  are  going  to  have  din- 
ner with  Aunt  Wess’,  and  they  are  all  going  to  a lecture 
afterwards.” 

The  artist  expressed  his  appreciation  and  accepted  her 
invitation. 

“ Do  you  know  where  we  live  ? ” she  demanded. 
“ You  know  we’ve  moved  since.” 

“ Yes,  I know,”  he  told  her.  “ I made  up  my  mind 
16 


242 


The  Pit 


to  take  a long  walk  here  in  the  Park  this  morning,  and 
I passed  your  house  on  my  way  out.  You  see,  I had 
to  look  up  your  address  in  the  directory  before  writ- 
ing. Your  house  awed  me,  I contess,  and  the  style  is 
surprisingly  good.” 

“ But  tell  me,”  asked  Laura,  “ you  never  speak  of 
yourself,  what  have  you  been  doing  since  you  went 
away  ? ” 

“ Nothing.  Merely  idling,  and  painting  a little,  and 
studying  some  thirteenth  century  glass  in  Avignon 
and  Sienna.” 

“ And  shall  you  go  back  ? ” 

“ Yes,  I think  so,  in  about  a month.  So  soon  as  I 
have  straightened  out  some  little  businesses  of  mine — 
which  puts  me  in  mind,”  he  said,  glancing  at  his  watch, 
“ that  I have  an  appointment  at  eleven,  and  should  be 
about  it.” 

He  said  good-by  and  left  her,  and  Laura  cantered 
homeward  in  high  spirits.  She  was  very  glad  that  Cor- 
thell  had  come  back.  She  had  always  liked  him.  He 
not  only  talked  w'ell  himself,  but  seemed  to  have  the 
faculty  of  making  her  do  the  same.  She  remembered 
that  in  the  old  days,  before  she  had  met  Jadwin,  her 
mind  and  conversation,  for  undiscoverable  reasons,  had 
never  been  nimbler,  quicker,  nor  more  effective  than 
when  in  the  company  of  the  artist. 

Arrived  at  home,  Laura  (as  soon  as  she  had  looked 
up  the  definition  of  “ pergola  ” in  the  dictionary)  lost 
no  time  in  telephoning  to  Mrs.  Cressler. 

“ What,”  this  latter  cried  when  she  told  her  the  news, 
“ that  Sheldon  Corthell  back  again ! Well,  dear  me, 
if  he  wasn’t  the  last  person  in  my  mind.  I do  re- 
member the  lovely  windows  he  used  to  paint,  and  how 
refined  and  elegant  he  always  was — and  the  loveliest 
hands  and  voice.” 


A Story  of  Chicago 


243 

“ He’s  to  dine  with  us  to-night,  and  I want  you  and 
Mr.  Cressler  to  come.” 

“ Oh,  Laura,  child,  I just  simply  can’t.  Charlie’s  got 
a man  from  Milwaukee  coming  here  to-night,  and  I’ve 
got  to  feed  him.  Isn’t  it  too  provoking  ? I’ve  got  to  sit 
and  hsten  to  those  two,  clattering  commissions  and 
percentages  and  all,  when  I might  be  hearing  Sheldon 
Corthell  talk  art  and  poetry  and  stained  glass.  I de- 
clare, I never  have  any  luck.” 

At  quarter  to  six  that  evening  Laura  sat  in  the  library, 
before  the  fireplace,  in  her  black  velvet  dinner  gown, 
cutting  the  pages  of  a new  novel,  the  ivory  cutter  as 
it  turned  and  glanced  in  her  hand,  appearing  to  be  a 
mere  prolongation  of  her  slender  fingers.  But  she 
was  not  interested  in  the  book,  and  from  time  to  time 
glanced  nervously  at  the  clock  upon  the  mantel-shelf 
over  her  head.  Jadwin  was  not  home  yet,  and  she  was 
distressed  at  the  thought  of  keeping  dinner  waiting. 
He  usually  came  back  from  down  town  at  five  o’clock, 
and  even  earlier.  To-day  she  had  expected  that  quite 
possibly  the  business  implied  in  the  Liverpool  cable 
of  the  morning  might  detain  him,  but  surely  he  should 
be  home  by  now;  and  as  the  minutes  passed  she  list- 
ened more  and  more  anxiously  for  the  sound  of  hoofs 
on  the  driveway  at  the  side  of  the  house. 

At  five  minutes  of  the  hour,  when  Corthell  was  an- 
nounced, there  was  still  no  sign  of  her  husband.  But 
as  she  was  crossing  the  hall  on  her  way  to  the  draw- 
ing-room, one  of  the  servants  informed  her  that  Mr. 
Jadwin  had  just  telephoned  that  he  would  be  home  in 
half  an  hour. 

“Is  he  on  the  telephone  now?”  she  asked,  quickly. 
“ Where  did  he  telephone  from?  ” 

But  it  appeared  that  Jadwin  had  “ hung  up  ” without 
mentioning  his  whereabouts. 


244 


The  Pit 


“ The  buggy  came  home,”  said  the  servant,  “ Mr, 
Jadwin  told  Jarvis  not  to  wait.  He  said  he  would  come 
in  the  street  cars,” 

Laura  reflected  that  she  could  delay  dinner  a half 
hpur,  and  gave  orders  to  that  effect, 

^“We  shall  have  to  wait  a little,”  she  explained  to 
Corthell  as  they  exchanged  greetings  in  the  drawing- 
room, “ Curtis  has  some  special  business  on  hand  to- 
day, and  is  half  an  hour  late.’^ 

They  sat  down  on  either  side  of  the  fireplace  in  the 
lofty  apartment,  with  its  sombre  hangings  of  wine- 
coloured  brocade  and  thick,  muffling  rugs,  and  for  up- 
wards of  three-quarters  of  an  hour  Corthell  interested 
her  with  his  description  of  his  life  in  the  cathedral  towns 
of  northern  Italy,  But  at  the  end  of  that  time  dinner 
was  announced. 

“ Has  Mr.  Jadwin  come  in  yet?  ” Laura  asked  of  the 
servant. 

“ No,  madam.” 

She  bit  her  lip  in  vexation. 

“ I can’t  imagine  what  can  keep  Curtis  so  late,”  she 
murmured.  “ Well,”  she  added,  at  the  end  of  her  re- 
sources, “ we  must  make  the  best  of  it.  I think  we 
will  go  in,  Mr.  Corthell,  without  waiting.  Curtis  must 
be  here  soon  now.” 

But,  as  a matter  of  fact,  he  was  not.  In  the  great  din- 
ing-room, filled  with  a dull  crimson  light,  the  air  just 
touched  with  the  scent  of  lilies  of  the  valley,  Corthell 
and  ]\Irs.  Jadwin  dined  alone. 

“ I suppose,”  observed  the  artist,  “ that  Mr.  Jadwin 
is  a very  busy  man.” 

“ Oh,  no,”  Laura  answered.  “ His  real  estate,  he 
says,  runs  itself,  and,  as  a rule,  Mr.  Gretrj'  manages 
most  of  his  Board  of  Trade  business.  It  is  only  occa- 
sionally that  anything  keeps  him  down  town  late.  I 


A Story  of  Chicago 


245 


scolded  him  this  morning,  however,  about  his  speculat- 
ing, and  made  him  promise  not  to  do  so  much  of  it. 
I hate  speculation.  It  seems  to  absorb  some  men  so; 
and  I don’t  believe  it’s  right  for  a man  to  allow  himself 
to  become  absorbed  altogether  in  business.” 

“ Oh,  why  limit  one’s  absorption  to  business  ? ” re- 
plied Corthell,  sipping  his  wine.  “ Is  it  right  for  one 
to  be  absorbed  ‘ altogether  ’ in  anything — even  in  art, 
even  in  religion  ? ” 

“ Oh,  religion,  I don’t  know,”  she  protested. 

“ Isn’t  that  certain  contribution,”  he  hazarded, 
“ which  we  make  to  the  general  welfare,  over  and 
above  our  own  individual  work,  isn’t  that  the  essential? 
I suppose,  of  course,  that  we  must  hoe,  each  of  us, 
his  own  little  row,  but  it’s  the  stroke  or  two  we  give 
to  our  neighbour’s  row — don’t  you  think? — that  helps 
most  to  cultivate  the  field.” 

“ But  doesn’t  religion  mean  more  than  a stroke  or 
two  ? ” she  ventured  to  reply. 

“ I’m  not  so  sure,”  he  answered,  thoughtfully.  “ If 
the  stroke  or  two  is  taken  from  one’s  own  work  instead 
of  being  given  in  excess  of  it.  One  must  do  one’s  own 
hoeing  first.  That’s  the  foundation  of  things.  A religion 
that  would  mean  to  be  ‘ altogether  absorbed  ’ in  my 
neighbour’s  hoeing  would  be  genuinely  pernicious, 
surely.  My  row,  meanwhile,  would  lie  open  to  weeds.” 

“ But  if  your  neighbour’s  row  grew  flowers  ? ” 

“ Unfortunately  weeds  grow  faster  than  the  flowers, 
and  the  weeds  of  my  row  would  spread  until  they 
choked  and  killed  my  neighbour’s  flowers,  I am  sure.” 

“ That  seems  selfish  though,”  she  persisted.  “ Sup- 
pose my  neighbour  were  maimed  or  halt  or  blind?  His 
poor  little  row  would  never  be  finished.  My  stroke  or 
two  would  not  help  very  much.” 

“ Yes,  but  every  row  lies  between  two  others,  you 


246 


The  Pit 


know.  The  hoer  on  the  far  side  of  the  cripple’s  row 
would  contribute  a stroke  or  two  as  well  as  you.  No,” 
he  went  on,  “ I am  sure  one’s  first  duty  is  to  do  one’s 
own  work.  It  seems  to  me  that  a work  accomplished 
benefits  the  whole  world — the  people — pro  rata.  If  we 
help  another  at  the  expense  of  our  work  instead  of  in 
excess  of  it,  we  benefit  only  the  individual,  and,  pro 
rata  again,  rob  the  people.  A little  good  contributed 
by  everybody  to  the  race  is  of  more,  infinitely  more, 
importance  than  a great  deal  of  good  contributed  by 
one  individual  to  another.” 

“ Yes,”  she  admitted,  beginning  at  last  to  be  con- 
vinced, “ I see  what  you  mean.  But  one  must  think 
very  large  to  see  that.  It  never  occurred  to  me  be- 
fore. The  individual — I,  Laura  Jadwin — counts  for 
nothing.  It  is  the  type  to  which  I belong  that’s  im- 
portant, the  mould,  the  form,  the  sort  of  composite 
photograph  of  hundreds  of  thousands  of  Laura  Jad- 
wins.  Yes,”  she  continued,  her  brows  bent,  her  mind 
hard  at  work,  “ what  I am,  the  little  things  that  dis- 
tinguish me  from  everybody  else,  those  pass  away  very 
quickly,  are  very  ephemeral.  But  the  type  Laura  Jad- 
win, that  always  remains,  doesn’t  it?  One  must  help 
building  up  only  the  permanent  things.  Then,  let’s  see, 
the  individual  may  deteriorate,  but  the  type  always 
grows  better.  . . . Yes,  I think  one  can  say  that.” 

“ At  least  the  type  never  recedes,”  he  prompted. 

“Oh,  it  began  good,”  she  cried,  as  though  at  a dis- 
covery, “ and  can  never  go  back  of  that  original  good. 
Something  keeps  it  from  going  below  a certain  point, 
and  it  is  left  to  us  to  lift  it  higher  and  higher.  No, 
the  type  can’t  be  bad.  Of  course  the  type  is  more  im- 
portant than  the  individual.  And  that  something  that 
keeps  it  from  going  below  a certain  point  is  God.” 

“ Or  nature.” 


247 


A Story  of  Chicago 

“ So  that  God  and  nature,”  she  cried  again,  “ work 
together?  No,  no,  they  are  one  and  the  same  thing.” 

“ There,  don’t  you  see,”  he  remarked,  smiling  back 
at  her,  “ how  simple  it  is  ? ” 

“ Oh-h,”  exclaimed  Laura,  with  a deep  breath,  “ isn’t 
it  beautiful  ? ” She  put  her  hand  to  her  forehead  with 
a little  laugh  of  deprecation.  “ My,”  she  said,  “ but 
those  things  make  you  think.” 

Dinner  was  over  before  she  was  aware  of  it,  and  they 
were  still  talking  animatedly  as  they  rose  from  the  table. 

“We  will  have  our  coffee  in  the  art  gallery,”  Laura 
said,  “ and  please  smoke.” 

He  lit  a cigarette,  and  the  two  passed  into  the  great 
glass-roofed  rotunda. 

“ Here  is  the  one  I like  best,”  said  Laura,  standing 
before  the  Bougereau. 

“Yes?”  he  queried,  observing  the  picture  thought- 
fully. “ I suppose,”  he  remarked,  “ it  is  because  it  de- 
mands less  of  you  than  some  others.  I see  what  you 
mean.  It  pleases  you  because  it  satisfies  you  so  easily. 
You  can  grasp  it  without  any  effort.” 

“ Oh,  I don’t  know,”  she  ventured. 

“ Bougereau  ‘ fills  a place.’  I know  it,”  he  answered. 
“ But  I cannot  persuade  myself  to  admire  his  art.” 

“ But,”  she  faltered,  “ I thought  that  Bougereau  was 
considered  the  greatest — one  of  the  greatest — his  won- 
derful flesh  tints,  the  drawing,  and  colouring ” 

“ But  I think  you  will  see,”  he  told  her,  “ if  you  think 
about  it,  that  for  all  there  is  in  his  picture — back  of  it 
— a fine  hanging,  a beautiful  vase  would  have  exactly 
the  same  value  upon  your  wall.  Now,  on  the  other 
hand,  take  this  picture.”  He  indicated  a small  canvas 
to  the  right  of  the  bathing  nymphs,  representing  a 
twilight  landscape. 

“ Oh,  that  one,”  said  Laura.  “ We  bought  that  here 


248 


The  Pit 


in  America,  in  New  York.  It’s  by  a Western  artist. 
I never  noticed  it  much,  I’m  afraid.” 

“ But  now  look  at  it,”  said  Corthell.  “ Don’t  you 
know  that  the  artist  saw  something  more  than  trees 
and  a pool  and  afterglow?  He  had  that  feeling  of  night 
coming  on,  as  he  sat  there  before  his  sketching  easel 
on  the  edge  of  that  little  pool.  He  heard  the  frogs 
beginning  to  pipe,  I’m  sure,  and  the  touch  of  the  night 
mist  was  on  his  hands.  And  he  was  very  lonely  and 
even  a little  sad.  In  those  deep  shadows  under  the 
trees  he  put  something  of  himself,  the  gloom  and  the 
sadness  that  he  felt  at  the  moment.  And  that  little 
pool,  still  and  black  and  sombre — why,  the  whole  thing 
is  the  tragedy  of  a life  full  of  dark,  hidden  secrets. 
And  the  little  pool  is  a heart.  No  one  can  say  how 
deep  it  is,  or  what  dreadful  thing  one  would  find  at  the 
bottom,  or  what  drowned  hopes  or  what  sunken  am- 
bitions. That  little  pool  says  one  word  as  plain  as  if 
it  were  whispered  in  the  ear — despair.  Oh,  yes,  I pre- 
fer it  to  the  nymphs.” 

“ I am  very  much  ashamed,”  returned  Laura,  “ that 
I could  not  see  it  all  before  for  myself.  But  I see  it 
now.  It  is  better,  of  course.  I shall  come  in  here 
often  now  and  study  it.  Of  all  the  rooms  in  our  house, 
this  is  the  one  I like  best.  But,  I am  afraid,  it  has  been 
more  because  of  the  organ  than  of  the  pictures.” 

Corthell  turned  about. 

“ Oh,  the  grand,  noble  organ,”  he  murmured.  “ I 
envy  you  this  of  all  your  treasures.  May  I play  for 
you?  Something  to  compensate  for  the  dreadful,  de- 
spairing little  tarn  of  the  picture.” 

“ I should  love  to  have  you,”  she  told  him. 

He  asked  permission  to  lower  the  lights,  and  stepping 
outside  the  door  an  instant,  pressed  the  buttons  that 
extinguished  all  but  a very  few  of  them.  After  he  had 


249 


A Story  of  Chicago 

done  this  he  came  back  to  the  organ  and  detached  the 
; self-playing  “ arrangement  ” without  comment,  and 
seated  himself  at  the  console. 

Laura  lay  back  in  a long  chair  close  at  hand.  The 
moment  was  propitious.  The  artist’s  profile  silhouetted 
itself  against  the  shade  of  a light  that  burned  at  the 
side  of  the  organ,  and  that  gave  light  to  the  keyboard. 
And  on  this  keyboard,  full  in  the  reflection,  lay  his  long, 
slim  hands.  They  were  the  only  things  that  moved  in 
the  room,  and  the  chords  and  bars  of  Mendelssohn’s 
“ Consolation  ” seemed,  as  he  played,  to  flow,  not  from 
the  instrument,  but,  like  some  invisible  ether,  from  his 
finger-tips  themselves. 

“You  hear,”  he  said  to  Laura,  “the  effect  of  ques' 
tions  and  answer  in  this.  The  questions  are  passion- 
! ate  and  tumultuous  and  varied,  but  the  answer  is  al- 
ways the  same,  always  calm  and  soothing  and  dignified.” 

She  answered  with  a long  breath,  speaking  just  above 
a whisper: 

“ Oh,  yes,  yes,  I understand.” 

He  finished  and  turned  towards  her  a moment.  “ Pos- 
sibly not  a very  high  order  of  art,”  he  said ; “ a little  too 
‘ easy,’  perhaps,  like  the  Bougereau,  but  ‘ Consolation  ’ 
should  appeal  very  simply  and  directly,  after  all.  Do 
you  care  for  Beethoven?” 

“ I — I am  afraid — ” began  Laura,  but  he  had  con- 
tinued without  waiting  for  her  reply. 

“You  remember  this?  The  ‘ Appassionata,’  the  F 
minor  sonata — ^just  the  second  movement.” 

But  when  he  had  finished  Laura  begged  him  to  con- 
tinue. 

“ Please  go  on,”  she  said.  “ Play  anything.  You 
can’t  tell  how  I love  it.” 

“ Here  is  something  I’ve  always  liked,”  he  answered, 
turning  back  to  the  keyboard.  “ It  is  the  * Mephisto 


250 


The  Pit 


Walzer  ’ of  Liszt.  He  has  adapted  it  himself  from  his 
own  orchestral  score,  very  ingeniously.  It  is  difficult 
to  render  on  the  organ,  but  I think  you  can  get  the  idea 
of  it.”  As  he  spoke  he  began  playing,  his  head  very 
slightly  moving  to  the  rhythm  of  the  piece.  At  the 
beginning  of  each  new  theme,  and  without  interrupting 
his  playing,  he  offered  a word  of  explanation; 

“Very  vivid  and  arabesque  this,  don’t  you  think? 
. . . And  now  this  movement;  isn’t  it  reckless  and 

capricious,  like  a woman  who  hesitates  and  then  takes 
the  leap?  Yet  there’s  a certain  nobility  there,  a feel- 
ing for  ideals.  You  see  it,  of  course.  . . . And  all 
the  while  this  undercurrent  of  the  sensual,  and  that 
feline,  eager  sentiment  . . . and  here,  I think,  is 
the  best  part  of  it,  the  very  essence  of  passion,  the 
voluptuousness  that  is  a veritable  anguish.  . . . 

These  long,  slow  rhythms,  tortured,  languishing,  really 
dying.  It  reminds  one  of  ‘ Phedre  ’ — V enus  toute  en- 
tiere,’  and  the  rest  of  it;  and  Wagner  has  the  same. 
You  find  it  again  in  Isolde’s  motif  continually.” 

Laura  was  transfixed,  all  but  transported.  Here  was 
something  better  than  Gounod  and  Verdi,  something 
above  and  beyond  the  obvious  one,  two,  three,  one, 
two,  three  of  the  opera  scores  as  she  knew  them  and 
played  them.  Music  she  understood  with  an  intuitive 
quickness ; and  those  prolonged  chords  of  Liszt’s,  heavv' 
and  clogged  and  cloyed  with  passion,  reached  some 
hitherto  untouched  string  within  her  heart,  and  ^vith 
resistless  power  twanged  it  so  that  the  vibration  of  it 
shook  her  entire  being,  and  left  her  quivering  and 
breathless,  the  tears  in  her  eyes,  her  hands  clasped  till 
the  knuckles  whitened. 

She  felt  all  at  once  as  though  a whole  new  world  were 
opened  to  her.  She  stood  on  Pisgah.  And  she  was 
ashamed  and  confused  at  her  ignorance  of  those  things 


251 


A Story  of  Chicago 

which  Corthell  tactfully  assumed  that  she  knew  as  a 
matter  of  course.  What  wonderful  pleasures  she  had 
ignored!  How  infinitely  removed  from  her  had  been 
the  real  world  of  art  and  artists  of  which  Corthell  was 
a part ! Ah,  but  she  would  make  amends  now.  No 
more  Verdi  and  Bougereau.  She  would  get  rid  of 
the  “ Bathing  Nymphs.”  Never,  never  again  would 
she  play  the  “ Anvil  Chorus,”  Corthell  should  select 
her  pictures,  and  should  play  to  her  from  Liszt  and 
Beethoven  that  music  which  evoked  all  the  turbulent 
emotion,  all  the  impetuosity  and  fire  and  exaltation 
that  she  felt  was  hers. 

She  wondered  at  herself.  Surely,  surely  there  were 
two  Laura  Jadwins.  One  calm  and  even  and  steady, 
loving  the  quiet  life,  loving  her  home,  finding  a pleas- 
ure in  the  duties  of  the  housewife.  This  was  the  Laura 
who  liked  plain,  homely,  matter-of-fact  Mrs.  Cressler, 
who  adored  her  husband,  who  delighted  in  Mr.  How- 
ells’s  novels,  who  abjured  society  and  the  formal  con- 
ventions, who  went  to  church  every  Sunday,  and  who 
was  afraid  of  her  own  elevator. 

But  at  moments  such  as  this  she  knew  that  there  was 
another  Laura  Jadwin — the  Laura  Jadwin  who  might 
have  been  a great  actress,  who  had  a “ temperament,” 
who  was  impulsive.  This  was  the  Laura  of  the  “ grand 
manner,”  who  played  the  role  of  the  great  lady  from 
room  to  room  of  her  vast  house,  who  read  Mere- 
dith, who  revelled  in  swift  gallops  through  the  park 
on  jet-black,  long-tailed  horses,  who  affected  black 
velvet,  black  jet,  and  black  lace  in  her  gowns,  who 
was  conscious  and  proud  of  her  pale,  stately  beauty — 
the  Laura  Jadwin,  in  fine,  who  delighted  to  recline  in  a 
long  chair  in  the  dim,  beautiful  picture  gallery  and 
listen  with  half-shut  eyes  to  the  great  golden  organ 
thrilling  to  the  passion  of  Beethoven  and  Liszt. 


252 


The  Pit 


The  last  notes  of  the  organ  sank  and  faded  into 
silence — a silence  that  left  a sense  of  darkness  like  that 
which  follows  upon  the  flight  of  a falling  star,  and 
after  a long  moment  Laura  sat  upright,  adjusting  the 
heavy  masses  of  her  black  hair  with  thrusts  of  her 
long,  white  fingers.  She  drew  a deep  breath. 

“ Oh,”  she  said,  “ that  was  wonderful,  wonderful. 
It  is  like  a new  language — no,  it  is  like  new  thoughts, 
too  fine  for  language.” 

“ I have  always  believed  so,”  he  answered.  “ Of  all 
the  arts,  music,  to  my  notion,  is  the  most  intimate.  At 
the  other  end  of  the  scale  you  have  architecture,  which 
is  an  expression  of  and  an  appeal  to  the  common  multi- 
tude, a whole  people,  the  mass.  Fiction  and  painting, 
and  even  poetry,  are  affairs  of  the  classes,  reaching 
the  groups  of  the  educated.  But  music — ah,  that  is 
different,  it  is  one  soul  speaking  to  another  soul.  The 
composer  meant  it  for  you  and  himself.  No  one  else 
has  anything  to  do  with  it.  Because  his  soul  was  hea\’y 
and  broken  with  grief,  or  bursting  with  passion,  or  tor- 
tured with  doubt,  or  searching  for  some  unnamed  ideal, 
he  has  come  to  you — you  of  all  the  people  in  the  world 
— with  his  message,  and  he  tells  you  of  his  yearnings 
and  his  sadness,  knowing  that  you  will  sympathise, 
knowing  that  your  soul  has,  like  his,  been  acquainted 
with  grief,  or  with  gladness ; and  in  the  music  his  soul 
speaks  to  yours,  beats  with  it,  blends  with  it,  yes,  is 
even,  spiritually,  married  to  it.” 

And  as  he  spoke  the  electrics  all  over  the  gallery 
flashed  out  in  a sudden  blaze,  and  Curtis  Jadwin  entered 
the  room,  crying  out : 

“Are  you  here,  Laura?  By  George,  my  girl,  we 
pulled  it  off,  and  I’ve  cleaned  up  five — hundred — ^thou- 
sand— dollars.” 

Laura  and  the  artist  faced  quickly  about,  blinking  at 
the  sudden  glare,  and  Laura  put  her  hand  over  her  eyes. 


253 


A Story  of  Chicago 


**  Oh,  I didn’t  mean  to  blind  you,”  said  her  husband, 
as  he  came  forward.  “But  I thought  it  wouldn’t  be 
appropriate  to  tell  you  the  good  news  in  the  dark.” 

Corthell  rose,  and  for  the  first  time  Jadwin  caught 
sight  of  him. 

“This  is  Mr.  Corthell,  Curtis,”  Laura  said.  “You 
remember  him,  of  course  ? ” 

“ Why,  certainly,  certainly,”  declared  Jadwin,  shaking 
Corthell’s  hand.  “ Glad  to  see  you  again.  I hadn’t  an 


I idea  you  were  here.”  He  was  excited,  elated,  very 


talkative.  “ I guess  I came  in  on  you  abruptly,”  he 
; observed.  “ They  told  me  Mrs.  Jadwin  was  in  here,  and 
' I was  full  of  my  good  news.  By  the  way,  I do  remem- 
ber now.  When  I came  to  look  over  my  mail  on  the 
way  down  town  this  morning,  I found  a note  from  you 
to  my  wife,  saying  you  would  call  to-night.  Thought 
it  was  for  me,  and  opened  it  before  I found  the  mistake.” 

“ I knew  you  had  gone  off  with  it,”  said  Laura. 

“ Guess  I must  have  mixed  it  up  with  my  own  mail 
this  morning.  I’d  have  telephoned  you  about  it,  Laura, 
but  upon  my  word  I’ve  been  so  busy  all  day  I clean  for- 
got it.  I’ve  let  the  cat  out  of  the  bag  already,  Mr. 
Corthell,  and  I might  as  well  tell  the  whole  thing  now. 
I’ve  been  putting  through  a little  deal  with  some  Liver- 
pool fellows  to-day,  and  I had  to  wait  down  town  to  get 
their  cables  to-night.  You  got  my  telephone,  did  you, 
Laura?” 

“ Yes,  but  you  said  then  you’d  be  up  in  half  an  hour.” 

“ I know — I know.  But  those  Liverpool  cables  didn’t 
come  till  all  hours.  Well,  as  I was  saying,  Mr.  Corthell, 
I had  this  deal  on  hand — it  was  that  wheat,  Laura,  I was 
telling  you  about  this  morning — five  million  bushels  of 
it,  and  I found  out  from  my  English  agent  that  I could 
slam  it  right  into  a couple  of  fellows  over  there,  if  we 
could  come  to  terms.  We  came  to  terms  right  enouglv 


254 


The  Pit 


Some  of  that  wheat  I sold  at  a profit  of  fifteen  cents  on 
every  bushel.  My  broker  and  I figured  it  out  just  now, 
before  I started  home,  and,  as  I say,  I’m  a clean  half 
million  to  the  good.  So  much  for  looking  ahead  a little 
further  than  the  next  man.”  He  dropped  into  a chair 
and  stretched  his  arms  wide.  “ Whoo ! I’m  tired, 
Laura.  Seems  as  though  I’d  been  on  my  feet  all  day. 
Do  you  suppose  Mary,  or  Martha,  or  Maggie,  or  what- 
ever her  name  is,  could  rustle  me  a good  strong  cup  of 
tea?” 

“ Haven’t  you  dined,  Curtis  ? ” cried  Laura. 

“ Oh,  I had  a stand-up  lunch  somewhere  with  Sam. 
But  we  were  both  so  excited  we  might  as  well  have 
eaten  sawdust.  Heigho,  I sure  am  tired.  It  takes  it 
out  of  you,  Mr.  Corthell,  to  make  five  hundred  thousand 
in  about  ten  hours.” 

{j,‘  Indeed  I imagine  so,”  assented  the  artist.  Jadwin 
turned  to  his  wife,  and  held  her  glance  in  his  a moment. 
He  was  full  of  triumph,  full  of  the  grim  humour  of  the 
suddenly  successful  American^ 

“ Hey  ? ” he  said.  “ What  do  you  think  of  that, 
Laura,”  he  clapped  down  his  big  hand  upon  his  chair 
arm,  “ a whole  half  million — at  one  grab  ? Maybe  they’ll 
say  down  there  in  La  Salle  Street  now  that  I don’t  know 
wheat.  Why,  Sam — that’s  Gretry  my  broker,  IMr.  Cor- 
thell, of  Gretry,  Converse  & Co. — Sam  said  to  me, 
Laura,  to-night,  he  said,  ‘ J.,’ — they  call  me  ‘ J.’  down 
there,  Mr.  Corthell — ‘ J.,  I take  off  my  hat  to  jmu. 
I thought  you  were  wrong  from  the  very  first,  but  I 
guess  you  know  this  game  better  than  I do.’  Yes,  sir, 
that’s  what  he  said,  and  Sam  Gretry  has  been  trading 
in  wheat  for  pretty  nearly  thirty  years.  Oh,  I knew  it,” 
he  cried,  with  a quick  gesture ; “ I knew  wheat  was  going 
to  go  up.  I knew  it  from  the  first,  when  all  the  rest  of 
’em  laughed  at  me.  I knew  this  European  demand 


255 


A Story  of  Chicago 

would  hit  us  hard  about  this  time.  I knew  it  was  a good 
thing  to  buy  wheat ; I knew  it  was  a good  thing  to  have 
special  agents  over  in  Europe.  Oh,  they’ll  all  buy  now 
— when  I’ve  showed  ’em  the  way.  Upon  my  word,  I 
haven’t  talked  so  much  in  a month  of  Sundays.  You 
must  pardon  me,  Mr.  Corthell.  I don’t  make  five  hun- 
dred thousand  every  day.” 

“ But  this  is  the  last — isn’t  it  ? ” said  Laura. 

“ Yes,”  admitted  Jadwin,  with  a quick,  deep  breath. 
“ I’m  done  now.  No  more  speculating.  Let  some  one 
else  have  a try  now.  See  if  they  can  hold  five  million 
bushels  till  it’s  wanted.  My,  my,  I am  tired — as  I’ve  said 
before.  D’that  tea  come,  Laura?” 

“ What’s  that  in  your  hand  ? ” she  answered,  smiling. 

Jadwin  stared  at  the  cup  and  saucer  he  held,  whimsi- 
cally. “ Well,  well,”  he  exclaimed,  “ I must  be  flust- 
ered. Corthell,”  he  declared  between  swallows,  “ take 
my  advice.  Buy  May  wheat.  It’ll  beat  art  all  hollow.” 

“ Oh,  dear,  no,”  returned  the  artist.  “ I should  lose 
my  senses  if  I won,  and  my  money  if  I didn’t.” 

“ That’s  so.  Keep  out  of  it.  It’s  a rich  man’s  game. 
And  at  that,  there’s  no  fun  in  it  unless  you  risk  more 
than  you  can  afford  to  lose.  Well,  let’s  not  talk  shop. 
You’re  an  artist,  Mr.  Corthell.  What  do  you  think  of 
our  house?  ” 

Later  on,  when  they  had  said  good-by  to  Corthell, 
and  when  Jadwin  was  making  the  rounds  of  the  library, 
art  gallery,  and  drawing-rooms — a nightly  task  which 
he  never  would  intrust  to  the  servants — turning  down 
the  lights  and  testing  the  window  fastenings,  his  wife 
said: 

“ And  now  you  are  out  of  it — for  good.” 

“ I don’t  own  a grain  of  wheat,”  he  assured  her. 
“ I’ve  got  to  be  out  of  it.” 

The  next  day  he  went  down  town  for  only  two  or 


The  Pit 


256 

three  hours  in  the  afternoon.  But  he  did  not  go  near 
the  Board  of  Trade  building.  He  talked  over  a few 
business  matters  with  the  manager  of  his  real  estate 
office,  wrote  an  unimportant  letter  or  two,  signed  a few 
orders,  was  back  at  home  by  five  o’clock,  and  in  the 
evening  took  Laura,  Page,  and  Landry  Court  to  the 
theatre. 

After  breakfast  the  next  morning,  when  he  had  read 
his  paper,  he  got  up,  and,  thrusting  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  looked  across  the  table  at  his  wife, 

“Well,”  he  said.  “ Now  what’ll  we  do?” 

She  put  down  at  once  the  letter  she  was  reading. 

“Would  you  like  to  drive  in  the  park?”  she  sug- 
gested. “ It  is  a beautiful  morning.” 

“ M — m — yes,”  he  answered  slowly.  “ All  right. 
Let’s  drive  in  the  park.” 

But  she  could  see  that  the  prospect  was  not  alluring 
to  him. 

“ No,”  she  said,  “ no,  I don’t  think  you  want  to  do 
that.” 

“ I don’t  think  I do,  either,”  he  Admitted.  “ The  fact 
is,  Laura,  I just  about  know  that  park  by  heart.  Is 
there  anything  good  in  the  magazines  this  month?” 

She  got  them  for  him,  and  he  installed  himself  com- 
fortably in  the  library,  with  a box  of  cigars  near  at  hand. 

“ Ah,”  he  said,  fetching  a long  breath  as  he  settled 
back  in  the  deep-seated  leather  chair.  “ Now  this  is 
what  I call  solid  comfort.  Better  than  stewing  and  fuss- 
ing about  La  Salle  Street  with  your  mind  loaded  down 
with  responsibilities  and  all.  This  is  my  idea  of  life.” 

But  an  hour  later,  when  Laura — who  had  omitted  her 
ride  that  morning — looked  into  the  room,  he  was  not 
there.  The  magazines  were  helter-skeltered  upon  the 
floor  and  table,  where  he  had  tossed  each  one  after 
turning  the  leaves.  A servant  told  her  that  Mr.  Jadwin 
was  out  in  the  stables. 


257 


A Story  of  Chicago 

She  saw  him  through  the  window,  in  a cap  and  great- 
coat, talking  with  the  coachman  and  looking  over  one 
of  the  horses.  But  he  came  back  to  the  house  in  a little 
while,  and  she  found  him  in  his  smoking-room  with  a 
novel  in  his  hand. 

“ Oh,  I read  that  last  week,”  she  said,  as  she  caught 
a glimpse  of  the  title.  “Isn’t  it  interesting?  Don’t 
you  think  it  is  good  ? ” 

“ Oh — ^yes — pretty  good,”  he  admitted.  “ Isn’t  it 
about  time  for  lunch?  Let’s  go  to  the  matinee  this 
afternoon,  Laura.  Oh,  that’s  so,  it’s  Thursday;  I for- 
got.” 

“ Let  me  read  that  aloud  to  you,”  she  said,  reaching 
for  the  book.  “ I know  you’ll  be  interested  when  you 
get  farther  along.” 

“ Honestly,  I don’t  think  I would  be,”  he  declared. 
“ I’ve  looked  ahead  in  it.  It  seems  terribly  dry.  Do 
you  know,”  he  said,  abruptly,  “ if  the  law  was  off  I’d 
go  up  to  Geneva  Lake  and  fish  through  the  ice.  Laura, 
how  would  you  like  to  go  to  Florida  ? ” 

“ Oh,  I tell  you,’^  she  exclaimed.  “ Let’s  go  up  to 
Geneva  Lake  over  Christmas.  We’ll  open  up  the  house 
and  take  some  of  the  servants  along  and  have  a house 
party.” 

Eventually  this  was  done.  The  Cresslers  and  the 
Gretrys  were  invited,  together  with  Sheldon  Corthell 
and  Landry  Court.  Page  and  Aunt  Wess’  came  as  a 
matter  of  course.  Jadwin  brought  up  some  of  the 
horses  and  a couple  of  sleighs.  On  Christmas  night 
they  had  a great  tree,  and  Corthell  composed  the  words 
and  music  for  a carol  which  had  a great  success. 

About  a week  later,  two  days  after  New  Year’s  day, 
when  Landry  came  down  from  Chicago  on  the  afternoon 
train,  he  was  full  of  the  tales  of  a great  day  on  the 
Board  of  Trade.  Laura,  descending  to  the  sitting-room. 


258 


The  Pit 


just  before  dinner,  found  a group  in  front  of  the  fire« 
place,  where  the  huge  logs  were  hissing  and  crackling. 
Her  husband  and  Cressler  were  there,  and  Gretry,  who 
had  come  down  on  an  earlier  train.  Page  sat  near  at 
hand,  her  chin  on  her  palm,  listening  intently  to  Landry, 
who  held  the  centre  of  the  stage  for  the  moment.  In 
a far  corner  of  the  room  Sheldon  Corthell,  in  a dinner 
coat  and  patent-leather  pumps,  a cigarette  between  his 
fingers,  read  a volume  of  Italian  verse. 

“ It  was  the  confirmation  of  the  failure  of  the  Argen- 
tine crop  that  did  it,”  Landry  was  saying;  “ that  and  the 
tremendous  foreign  demand.  She  opened  steady 
enough  at  eighty-three,  but  just  as  soon  as  the  gong 
tapped  we  began  to  get  it.  Buy,  buy,  buy.  Everybody 
is  in  it  now.  The  public  are  speculating.  For  one 
fellow  who  wants  to  sell  there  are  a dozen  buyers.  We 
had  one  of  the  hottest  times  I ever  remember  in  the 
Pit  this  morning.” 

Laura  saw  Jadwin’s  eyes  snap. 

“ I told  you  we’d  get  this,  Sam,”  he  said,  nodding  to 
the  broker. 

“ Oh,  there’s  plenty  of  wheat,”  answered  Gretry,  eas- 
ily. “ Wait  till  we  get  dollar  wheat — if  we  do — and  see 
it  come  out.  The  farmers  haven’t  sold  it  all  yet.  There’s 
always  an  army  of  ancient  hayseeds  who  have  the  stuff 
tucked  away — in  old  stockings,  I gness — and  who’ll 
dump  it  on  you  all  right  if  you  pay  enough.  There’s 
plenty  of  wheat.  I’ve  seen  it  happen  before.  Work 
the  price  high  enough,  and.  Lord,  how  they’ll  scrape  the 
bins  to  throw  it  at  you ! You’d  never  guess  from  what 
out-of-the-way  places  it  would  come.” 

“ I tell  you,  Sam,”  retorted  Jadwin,  “ the  surplus  of 
wheat  is  going  out  of  the  country — and  it’s  going  fast 
And  some  of  these  shorts  will  have  to  hustle  lively  for 
it  pretty  soon,” 


25S 


A Story  of  Chicago 

“The  Crookes  gang,  though,”  observed  Landry., 
“ seem  pretty  confident  the  market  will  break.  I’m  sure 

I they  were  selling  short  this  morning.” 

[ “ The  idea,”  exclaimed  Jadwin,  incredulously,  “ the 

I I idea  of  selling  short  in  face  of  this  Argentine  collapse, 
: and  all  this  Bull  news  from  Europe ! ” 

“ Oh,  there  are  plenty  of  shorts,”  urged  Gretry. 
“ Plenty  of  them.” 

Try  as  he  would,  the  echoes  of  the  rumbling  of  the  Pit 
reached  Jadwin  at  every  hour  of  the  day  and  night, 
i The  maelstrom  there  at  the  foot  of  La  Salle  Street  was 
swirling  now  with  a mightier  rush  than  for  years  past, 

‘ Thundering,  its  vortex  smoking,  it  sent  its  whirling  far 
out  over  the  country,  from  ocean  to  ocean,  sweeping 
the  wheat  into  its  currents,  sucking  it  in,  and  spewing 
1 it  out  again  in  the  gigantic  pulses  of  its  ebb  and  flow. 

And  he,  Jadwin,  who  knew  its  every  eddy,  who  could 
foretell  its  every  ripple,  was  out  of  it,  out  of  it.  Inactive, 
he  sat  there  idle  while  the  clamour  of  the  Pit  swelled 
daily  louder,  and  while  other  men,  men  of  little  minds, 
of  narrow  imaginations,  perversely,  blindly  shut  their 
eyes  to  the  swelling  of  its  waters,  neglecting  the  chances 
which  he  would  have  known  how  to  use  with  such  large, 
such  vast  results.  That  mysterious  event  which  long 
ago  he  felt  was  preparing,  was  not  yet  consummated. 
The  great  Fact,  the  great  Result  which  was  at  last  to 
issue  forth  from  all  this  turmoil  was  not  yet  achieved. 
Would  it  refuse  to  come  until  a master  hand,  all  power- 
ful, all  daring,  gripped  the  levers  of  the  sluice  gates  that 
controlled  the  crashing  waters  of  the  Pit  ? He  did  not 
know.  Was  it  the  moment  for  a chief? 

Was  this  upheaval  a revolution  that  called  aloud  for 
its  Napoleon?  Would  another,  not  himself,  at  last,  see- 
ing where  so  many  shut  their  eyes,  step  into  the  place 
of  high  command  ? 


26o 


The  Pit 


Jadwin  chafed  and  fretted  in  Wg  inaction.  As  the 
time  when  the  house  party  should  break  up  drew  to  its 
close,  his  impatience  harried  him  like  a gadfly.  He 
took  long  drives  over  the  lonely  country  roads,  or 
tramped  the  hills  or  the  frozen  lake,  thoughtful,  pre- 
occupied. He  still  held  his  seat  upon  the  Board  of 
Trade.  He  still  retained  his  agents  in  Europe.  Each 
morning  brought  him  fresh  despatches,  each  evening’s 
paper  confirmed  his  forecasts. 

“ Oh,  I’m  out  of  it  for  good  and  all,”  he  assured  his 
wife.  “ But  I know  the  man  who  could  take  up  the 
whole  jing-bang  of  that  Crookes  crowd  in  one  hand 
and  ” — his  large  fist  swiftly  knotted  as  he  spoke  the 
words — “ scrunch  it  up  like  an  eggshell,  by  George.” 

Landry  Court  often  entertained  Page  with  accounts 
of  the  doings  on  the  Board  of  Trade,  and  about  a fort- 
night after  the  Jadwins  had  returned  to  their  city  home 
he  called  on  her  one  evening  and  brought  two  or  three 
of  the  morning’s  papers. 

“ Have  you  seen  this  ? ” he  asked.  She  shook  her 
head. 

“ Well,”  he  said,  compressing  his  lips,  and  narrowing 
his  eyes,  “ let  me  tell  you,  we  are  having  pretty — lively — • 
times — down  there  on  the  Board  these  days.  The  whole 
country  is  talking  about  it.” 

He  read  her  certain  extracts  from  the  newspapers  he 
had  brought.  The  first  article  stated  that  recently  a new 
factor  had  appeared  in  the  Chicago  wheat  market.  A 
“ Bull  ” clique  had  evidently  been  formed,  presumably 
of  New  York  capitalists,  who  were  ousting  the  Crookes 
crowd  and  were  rapidly  coming  into  control  of  the  mar- 
ket. In  consequence  of  this  the  price  of  wheat  was 
again  mounting. 

Another  paper  spoke  of  a combine  of  St.  Louis  firms 
who  were  advancing  prices,  bulling  the  market.  Still 
a third  said,  at  the  beginning  of  a half-column  article  : 


26i 


A Story  of  Chicago 

“ It  is  now  universally  conceded  that  an  Unknown 
Bull  has  invaded  the  Chicago  wheat  market  since  the 
beginning  of  the  month,  and  is  now  dominating  the  en- 
tire situation.  The  Bears  profess  to  have  no  fear  of  this 
mysterious  enemy,  but  it  is  a matter  of  fact  that  a mul- 
titude of  shorts  were  driven  ignominiously  to  cover  on 
Tuesday  last,  when  the  Great  Bull  gathered  in  a long 
line  of  two  million  bushels  in  a single  half  hour.  Scalp- 
ing and  eighth-chasing  are  almost  entirely  at  an  end, 
the  smaller  traders  dreading  to  be  caught  on  the  horns 
of  the  Unknown.  The  new  operator’s  identity  has  been 
carefully  concealed,  but  whoever  he  is,  he  is  a wonder- 
ful trader  and  is  possessed  of  consummate  nerve.  It 
has  been  rumoured  that  he  hails  from  New  York,  and 
is  but  one  of  a large  clique  who  are  inaugurating  a Bull 
campaign.  But  our  New  York  advices  are  emphatic  in 
denying  this  report,  and  we  can  safely  state  that  the 
Unknown  Bull  is  a native,  and  a present  inhabitant  of 
the  Windy  City.” 

Page  looked  up  at  Landry  quickly,  and  he  returned 
her  glance  without  speaking.  There  was  a moment’s 
silence. 

“ I guess,”  Landry  hazarded,  lowering  his  voice, 
“ I guess  we’re  both  thinking  of  the  same  thing.” 

“ But  I know  he  told  my  sister  that  he  was  going  to 
stop  all  that  kind  of  thing.  What  do  you  think  ? ” 

“ I hadn’t  ought  to  think  anything.” 

“ Say  ‘ shouldn’t  think,’  Landry.” 

“ Shouldn’t  think,  then,  anything  about  it.  My  busi- 
ness is  to  execute  Mr.  Gretry’s  orders.” 

“ Well,  I know  this,”  said  Page,  “ that  Mr.  Jadwin 
is  down  town  all  day  again.  You  know  he  stayed  away 
for  a while.” 

“ Oh,  that  may  be  his  real  estate  business  that  keeps 
him  down  town  so  much,”  replied  Landry. 


The  Pit 


262 

^Laura  is  terribly  distressed,”  Page  went  on.  “ I 
can  see  that.  They  used  to  spend  all  their  evenings 
together  in  the  library,  and  Laura  would  read  aloud  to 
him.  But  now  he  comes  home  so  tired  that  sometimes 
he  goes  to  bed  at  nine  o’clock,  and  Laura  sits  there 
alone  reading  till  eleven  and  twelve.  But  she’s  afraid, 
too,  of  the  effect  upon  him.  He’s  getting  so  absorbed. 
He  don’t  care  for  literature  now  as  he  did  once,  or  was 
beginning  to  when  Laura  used  to  read  to  him ; and  he 
never  thinks  of  his  Sunday-school.  And  then,  too,  if 
you’re  to  believe  Mr.  Cressler,  there’s  a chance  that  he 
may  lose  if  he  is  speculating  again.” 

But  Landry  stoutly  protested; 

“ Well,  don’t  think  for  one  moment  that  Mr.  Curtis 
Jadwin  is  going  to  let  any  one  get  the  better  of  him. 
There’s  no  man — no,  nor  gang  of  men — could  down 
him.  He’s  head  and  shoulders  above  the  biggest  of 
them  down  there.  I tell  you  he’s  Napoleonic.  Yes, 
sir,  that’s  what  he  is,  Napoleonic,  to  say  the  least. 
Page,”  he  declared,  solemnly,  “ he’s  the  greatest  man 
Pve  ever  known.” 

Very  soon  after  this  it  was  no  longer  a secret  to 
Laura  Jadwin  that  her  husband  had  gone  back  to  the 
wheat  market,  and  that,  too,  with  such  impetuosity, 
such  eagerness,  that  his  rush  had  carried  him  to  the 
very  heart’s  heart  of  the  turmoil. 

He  was  now  deeply  involved;  his  influence  began  to 
be  felt.  Not  an  important  move  on  the  part  of  the 
“ Unknown  Bull,”  the  nameless  mysterious  stranger 
that  was  not  duly  not^  and  discussed  by  the  entire 
world  of  La  Salle  Street^ 

Almost  his  very  first  move,  carefully  guarded,  ex- 
ecuted with  profoundest  secrecy,  had  been  to  replace 
the  five  million  bushels  sold  to  Liverpool  by  five  mil- 


263 


A Story  of  Chicago 

lion  more  of  the  May  option.  This  was  in  January, 
and  all  through  February  and  all  through  the  first  days 
of  March,  while  the  cry  for  American  wheat  rose,  in- 
sistent and  vehement,  from  fifty  cities  and  centres  of 
eastern  Europe ; while  the  jam  of  men  in  the  Wheat  Pit 
grew  ever  more  frantic,  ever  more  furious,  and  while 
the  impassive  hand  on  the  great  dial  over  the  floor  of 
the  Board  rose,  resistless,  till  it  stood  at  eighty-seven, 
he  bought  steadily,  gathering  in  the  wheat,  calling  for 
it,  welcoming  it,  receiving  full  in  the  face  and  with 
opened  arms  the  cataract  that  poured  in  upon  the  Pit 
from  Iowa  and  Nebraska,  Minnesota  and  Dakota,  from 
the  dwindling  bins  of  Illinois  and  the  fast-emptying  ele- 
vators of  Kansas  and  Missouri. 

Then,  squarely  in  the  midst  of  the  commotion,  at  a 
time  when  Curtis  Jadwin  owned  some  ten  million 
bushels  of  May  wheat,  fell  the  Government  report  on 
the  visible  supply. 

“Well,”  said  Jadwin,  “what  do  you  think  of  it?” 

He  and  Gretry  were  in  the  broker’s  private  room  in 
the  offices  of  Gretry,  Converse  & Co.  They  were  study- 
ing the  report  of  the  Government  as  to  the  supply  of 
wheat,  which  had  just  been  published  in  the  editions  of 
the  evening  papers.  It  was  very  late  in  the  afternoon 
of  a lugubrious  March  day.  Long  since  the  gas  and 
electricity  had  been  lighted  in  the  office,  while  in  the 
streets  the  lamps  at  the  corners  were  reflected  down- 
ward in  long  shafts  of  light  upon  the  drenched  pave- 
ments. From  the  windows  of  the  room  one  could  see 
directly  up  La  Salle  Street.  The  cable  cars,  as  they 
made  the  turn  into  or  out  of  the  street  at  the  corner  of 
Monroe,  threw  momentary  glares  of  red  and  green 
lights  across  the  mists  of  rain,  and  filled  the  air  con- 
tinually with  the  jangle  of  their  bells.  Further  on  one 


264 


The  Pit 


caught  a glimpse  of  the  Court  House  rising  from  the 
pavement  like  a rain-washed  cliff  of  black  basalt, 
picked  out  with  winking  lights,  and  beyond  that,  at  the 
extreme  end  of  the  vista,  the  girders  and  cables  of  the 
La  Salle  Street  bridge. 

The  sidewalks  on  either  hand  were  encumbered  with 
the  “ six  o’clock  crowd  ” that  poured  out  incessantly 
from  the  street  entrances  of  the  office  buildings.  It  was 
a crowd  almost  entirely  of  men,  and  they  moved  only  in 
one  direction,  buttoned  to  the  chin  in  rain  coats,  their 
umbrellas  bobbing,  their  feet  scuffling  through  the  little 
pools  of  wet  in  the  depressions  of  the  sidewalk.  They 
streamed  from  out  the  brokers’  offices  and  commis- 
sion houses  on  either  side  of  La  Salle  Street,  contin- 
ually, unendingly,  moving  with  the  dragging  sluggish- 
ness of  the  fatigue  of  a hard  day’s  work.  Under  that 
grey  sky  and  blurring  veil  of  rain  they  lost  their  in- 
dividualities, they  became  conglomerate — a mass,  slow- 
moving,  black.  All  day  long  the  torrent  had  seethed 
and  thundered  through  the  street — the  torrent  that 
swirled  out  and  back  from  that  vast  Pit  of  roaring 
within  the  Board  of  Trade.  Now  the  Pit  was  stilled, 
the  sluice  gates  of  the  torrent  locked,  and  from  out  the 
thousands  of  offices,  from  out  the  Board  of  Trade  it- 
self, flowed  the  black  and  sluggish  lees,  the  lifeless 
dregs  that  filtered  back  to  their  level  for  a few  hours’ 
stagnation,  till  in  the  morning,  the  whirlpool  revolv- 
ing once  more,  should  again  suck  them  back  into  its 
vortex. 

The  rain  fell  uninterruptedly.  There  was  no  wind. 
The  cable  cars  jolted  and  jostled  over  the  tracks  with 
a strident  whir  of  vibrating  window  glass.  In  the  street, 
immediately  in  front  of  the  entrance  to  the  Board  of 
Trade,  a group  of  pigeons,  garnet-eyed,  trim,  with  coral- 
coloured  feet  and  iridescent  breasts,  strutted  and  flut- 


265 


A Story  of  Chicago 

tered,  pecking  at  the  handfuls  of  wheat  that  a porter 
threw  them  from  the  windows  of  the  floor  of  the  Board. 

“ Well,”  repeated  Jadwin,  shifting  with  a movement 
of  his  lips  his  unlit  cigar  to  the  other  corner  of  his 
mouth,  “well,  what  do  you  think  of  it?” 

The  broker,  intent  upon  the  figures  and  statistics,  re- 
plied only  by  an  indefinite  movement  of  the  head. 

“ Why,  Sam,”  observed  Jadwin,  looking  up  from  the 
paper,  “ there’s  less  than  a hundred  million  bushels  in 
the  farmers’  hands.  . . . That’s  awfully  small. 
Sam,  that’s  awfully  small.” 

“ It  ain't,  as  you  might  say,  colossal,”  admitted 
Gretry. 

There  was  a long  silence  while  the  two  men  studied 
the  report  still  further.  Gretry  took  a pamphlet  of 
statistics  from  a pigeon-hole  of  his  desk,  and  compared 
certain  figures  with  those  mentioned  in  the  report. 

Outside  the  rain  swept  against  the  windows  with  the 
subdued  rustle  of  silk.  A newsboy  raised  a Gregorian 
chant  as  he  went  down  the  street. 

“ By  George,  Sam,”  Jadwin  said  again,  “ do  you  know 
that  a whole  pile  of  that  wheat  has  got  to  go  to  Europe 
before  July?  How  have  the  shipments  been?  ” 

“ About  five  millions  a week.” 

“Why,  think  of  that,  twenty  millions  a month,  and 
it’s — let’s  see,  April,  May,  June,  July — four  months  be- 
fore a new  crop.  Eighty  million  bushels  will  go  out  of 
the  country  in  the  next  four  months — eighty  million 
out  of  less  than  a hundred  millions.” 

“ Looks  that  way,”  answered  Gretry. 

“ Here,”  said  Jadwin,  “ let’s  get  some  figures.  Let’s 
get  a squint  on  the  whole  situation.  Got  a ‘ Price  Cur- 
rent ’ here  ? Let’s  find  out  what  the  stocks  are  in  Chi- 
cago. I don’t  believe  the  elevators  are  exactly  burst' 
ing,  and,  say,”  he  called  after  the  broker,  who  had 


266 


The  Pit 


started  for  the  front  office,  “ say,  find  out  about  the 
primary  receipts,  and  the  Paris  and  Liverpool  stocks. 
Bet  you  what  you  like  that  Paris  and  Liverpool  to- 
gether couldn’t  show  ten  million  to  save  their  necks.”  i 
In  a few  moments  Gretry  was  back  again,  his  hands 
full  of  pamphlets  and  “ trade  ” journals. 

By  now  the  offices  were  quite  deserted.  The  last 
clerk  had  gone  home.  Without,  the  neighbourhood 
was  emptying  rapidly.  Only  a few  stragglers  hurried  I 
over  the  glistening  sidewalks ; only  a few  lights  yet  | 
remained  in  the  fagades  of  the  tall,  grey  office  build- 
ings. And  in  the  widening  silence  the  cooing  of  the 
pigeons  on  the  ledges  and  window-sills  of  the  Board  ‘ 
of  Trade  Building  made  itself  heard  with  increasing 
distinctness.  ' 

Before  Gretry’s  desk  the  two  men  leaned  over  the  ‘ 
litter  of  papers.  The  broker’s  pencil  was  in  his  hand, 
and  from  time  to  time  he  figured  rapidly  on  a sheet  of  . 
note  paper. 

“ And,”  observed  Jadwin  after  a while,  “ and  you  see 
how  the  millers  up  here  in  the  Northwest  have  been  | 
grinding  up  all  the  grain  in  sight.  Do  you  see  that?  ” 
“Yes,”  said  Gretry,  then  he  added,  “navigation  will 
be  open  in  another  month  up  there  in  the  straits.” 

“ That’s  so,  too,”  exclaimed  Jadwin,  “ and  what 
wheat  there  is  here  will  be  moving  out.  I’d  forgotten 
that  point.  Ain’t  you  glad  you  aren’t  short  of  wheat  I 
these  days  ? ” 

“ There’s  plenty  of  fellows  that  are,  though,”  returned 
Gretry.  “ I’ve  got  a lot  of  short  wheat  on  my  books — ■ 
a lot  of  it.” 

All  at  once  as  Gretry  spoke  Jadwin  started,  and 
looked  at  him  with  a curious  glance.  < 

“You  have,  hey?”  he  said.  “There  are  a lot  of 
fellows  who  have  sold  short  ? ” 


i A Story  of  Chicago  267 

I 

' “ Oh,  yes,  some  of  Crookes’  followers — ^yes,  quite  a 

I lot  of  them.” 

Jadwin  was  silent  a moment,  tugging  at  his  mustache. 
Then  suddenly  he  leaned  forward,  his  finger  almost 
in  Gretry’s  face. 

“ Why,  look  here,”  he  cried.  “ Don’t  you  see  ? Don’t 
you  see ” 

“ See  what  ? ” demanded  the  broker,  puzzled  at  the 
other’s  vehemence. 

Jadwin  loosened  his  collar  with  a forefinger. 

“Great  Scott!  I’ll  choke  in  a minute.  See  what? 
Why,  I own  ten  million  bushels  of  this  wheat  already, 
and  Europe  will  take  eighty  million  out  of  the  country. 
Why,  there  ain’t  going  to  be  any  wheat  left  in  Chicago 
by  May ! If  I get  in  now  and  buy  a long  line  of  cash 
wheat,  where  are  all  these  fellows  who’ve  sold  short  go- 
ing to  get  it  to  deliver  to  me?  Say,  where  are  they 
going  to  get  it?  Come  on  now,  tell  me,  where  are  they 
going  to  get  it  ? ” 

Gretry  laid  down  his  pencil  and  stared  at  Jadwin, 
looked  long  at  the  papers  on  his  desk,  consulted  his 
pencilled  memoranda,  then  thrust  his  hands  deep  into 
his  pockets,  with  a long  breath.  Bewildered,  and  as  if 
stupefied,  he  gazed  again  into  Jadwin’s  face. 

“ My  God ! ” he  murmured  at  last. 

“ Well,  where  are  they  going  to  get  it?  ” Jadwin  cried 
once  more,  his  face  suddenly  scarlet. 

“ J.,”  faltered  the  broker,  “ J.,  I — I’m  damned  if  I 
know.” 

And  then,  all  in  the  same  moment,  the  two  men  were 
on  their  feet.  The  event  which  all  those  past  eleven 
months  had  been  preparing  was  suddenly  consum- 
mated, suddenly  stood  revealed,  as  though  a veil  had 
been  ripped  asunder,  as  though  an  explosion  had 
crashed  through  the  air  upon  them,  deafening,  blinding. 


268 


The  Pit 


Jadwin  sprang  forward,  gripping  the  broker  by  the 
shoulder. 

“ Sam,”  he  shouted,  “ do  you  know — great  God ! — do 
you  know  what  this  means?  Sam,  we  can  corner  the 
market  1 ” 


vni 


On  that  particular  morning  in  April,  the  trading 
around  the  Wheat  Pit  on  the  floor  of  the  Chicago 
Board  of  Trade,  began  practically  a full  five  minutes 
ahead  of  the  stroke  of  the  gong;  and  the  throng  of 
brokers  and  clerks  that  surged  in  and  about  the  Pit 
itself  was  so  great  that  it  overflowed  and  spread  out 
over  the  floor  between  the  wheat  and  corn  pits,  ousting 
the  traders  in  oats  from  their  traditional  ground.  The 
market  had  closed  the  day  before  with  May  wheat  at 
ninety-eight  and  five-eighths,  and  the  Bulls  had  prophe- 
sied and  promised  that  the  magic  legend  “Dollar  wheat” 
would  be  on  the  Western  Union  wires  before  another 
twenty-four  hours. 

The  indications  pointed  to  a lively  morning’s  work. 
Never  for  an  instant  during  the  past  six  weeks  had  the 
trading  sagged  or  languished.  The  air  of  the  Pit  was 
surcharged  with  a veritable  electricity;  it  had  the  effer- 
vescence of  champagne,  or  of  a mountain-top  at  sun- 
rise. It  was  buoyant,  thrilling. 

The  “ Unknown  Bull  ” was  to  all  appearance  still  in 
control;  the  whole  market  hung  upon  his  horns;  and 
from  time  to  time,  one  felt  the  sudden  upward  thrust, 
powerful,  tremendous,  as  he  flung  the  wheat  up  another 
notch.  The  “ tailers  ” — the  little  Bulls — ^were  radiant. 
In  the  dark,  they  hung  hard  by  their  unseen  and  mys- 
terious friend  who  daily,  weekly,  was  making  them 
richer.  The  Bears  were  scarcely  visible.  The  Great 
Bull  in  a single  superb  rush  had  driven  them  nearly  out 
of  the  Pit.  Growling,  grumbling  they  had  retreated, 
and  only  at  distance  dared  so  much  as  to  bare  a claw. 


270 


The  Pit 


Just  the  formidable  lowering  of  the  Great  Bull’s  frontlet 
sufficed,  so  it  seemed,  to  check  their  every  move  of 
aggression  or  resistance.  And  all  the  while,  Liverpool, 
Paris,  Odessa,  and  Buda-Pesth  clamoured  ever  louder 
and  louder  for  the  grain  that  meant  food  to  the 
crowded  streets  and  barren  farms  of  Europe. 

A few  moments  before  the  opening  Charles  Cressler 
was  in  the  public  room,  in  the  southeast  corner  of  the 
building,  where  smoking  was  allowed,  finishing  his 
morning’s  cigar.  But  as  he  heard  the  distant  striking 
of  the  gong,  and  the  roar  of  the  Pit  as  it  began  to  get 
under  way,  with  a prolonged  rumbling  trepidation  like 
the  advancing  of  a great  flood,  he  threw  his  cigar  away 
and  stepped  out  from  the  public  room  to  the  main  floor, 
going  on  towards  the  front  windows.  At  the  sample 
tables  he  filled  his  pockets  with  wheat,  and  once  at  the 
windows  raised  the  sash  and  spread  the  pigeons’  break- 
fast on  the  granite  ledge. 

While  he  was  watching  the  confused  fluttering  of 
flashing  wings,  that  on  the  instant  filled  the  air  in  front 
of  the  window,  he  was  all  at  once  surprised  to  hear  a 
voice  at  his  elbow,  wishing  him  good  morning. 

“ Seem  to  know  you,  don’t  they?  ” 

Cressler  turned  about. 

“ Oh,”  he  said.  “ Hullo,  hullo — yes,  they  know  me 
all  right.  Especially  that  red  and  white  hen.  She’s  got 
a lame  wing  since  yesterday,  and  if  I don’t  watch,  the 
others  would  drive  her  off.  The  pouter  brute  yonder, 
for  instance.  He’s  a regular  pirate.  Wants  all  the 
wheat  himself.  Don’t  ever  seem  to  get  enough.” 

“ Well,”  observed  the  new-comer,  laconicall}',  “ there 
are  others.” 

The  man  who  spoke  was  about  forty  years  of  age. 
His  name  was  Calvin  Hardy  Crookes.  He  was  verv 
small  and  very  slim.  His  hair  was  yet  dark,  and  hiii 


A Story  of  Chicago 


271 


^face — smooth-shaven  and  triangulated  in  shape,  like  a 
I cat’s — was  dark  as  well.  The  eyebrows  were  thin  and 
;■  black,  and  the  lips  too  were  thin  and  were  puckered  a 
Ij  little,  like  the  mouth  of  a tight-shut  sack.  The  face 
| was  secretive,  impassive,  and  cold. 

1 The  man  himself  was  dressed  like  a dandy.  His  coat 

111 

;and  trousers  were  of  the  very  newest  fashion.  He 
[wore  a white  waistcoat,  drab  gaiters,  a gold  watch  and 
li  chain,  a jewelled  scarf  pin,  and  a seal  ring.  From  the 
i top  pocket  of  his  coat  protruded  the  finger  tips  of  a pair 
of  unworn  red  gloves. 

“Yes,”  continued  Crookes,  unfolding  a brand-new 
pocket  handkerchief  as  he  spoke.  “ There  are  others — 
who  never  know  when  they’ve  got  enough  wheat.” 

“ Oh,  you  mean  the  ‘ Unknown  Bull.’  ” 

“ I mean  the  unknown  damned  fool,”  returned 
Crookes  placidly. 

There  was  not  a trace  of  the  snob  about  Charles  Cress- 
ler.  No  one  could  be  more  democratic.  But  at  the 
same  time,  as  this  interview  proceeded,  he  could  not 
i fight  down  nor  altogether  ignore  a certain  qualm  of 
gratified  vanity.  Had  the  matter  risen  to  the  realm  of 
his  consciousness,  he  would  have  hated  himself  for  this. 
But  it  went  no  further  than  a vaguely  felt  increase  of 
self-esteem.  He  seemed  to  feel  more  important  in  his 
own  eyes ; he  would  have  liked  to  have  his  friends  see 
him  just  now  talking  with  this  man.  “ Crookes  was 
saying  to-day — ” he  would  observe  when  next  he  met 
an  acquaintance.  For  C.  H.  Crookes  was  conceded  to 
be  the  “ biggest  man  ” in  La  Salle  Street.  Not  even 
the  growing  importance  of  the  new  and  mysterious  Bull 
could  quite  make  the  market  forget  the  Great  Bear. 
Inactive  during  all  this  trampling  and  goring  in  the  Pit, 
there  were  yet  those  who,  even  as  they  strove  against 
the  Bull,  cast  uneasy  glances  over  their  shoulders, 


272 


The  Pit 


wondering  why  the  Bear  did  not  come  to  the  help  of 
his  own. 

“Well,  yes,”  admitted  Cressler,  combing  his  short 
beard,  “ yes,  he  is  a fool.” 

The  contrast  between  the  two  men  was  extreme. 
Each  was  precisely  what  the  other  was  not.  The  one, 
long,  angular,  loose-jointed;  the  other,  tight,  trig,  small, 
and  compact.  The  one  osseous,  the  other  sleek;  the 
one  stoop-shouldered,  the  other  erect  as  a corporal  of 
infantry. 

But  as  Cressler  was  about  to  continue  Crookes  put 
his  chin  in  the  air. 

“Hark!”  he  said.  “ What’s  that?  ” 

For  from  the  direction  of  the  Wheat  Pit  had  come 
a sudden  and  vehement  renewal  of  tumult.  The  traders 
as  one  man  were  roaring  in  chorus.  There  were  cheers; 
hats  went  up  into  the  air.  On  the  floor  by  the  lowest 
step  two  brokers,  their  hands  trumpet-wise  to  their 
mouths,  shouted  at  top  voice  to  certain  friends  at  a 
distance,  while  above  them,  on  the  topmost  step  of  the 
Pit,  a half-dozen  others,  their  arms  at  fullest  stretch, 
threw  the  hand  signals  that  interpreted  the  fluctua- 
tions in  the  price,  to  their  associates  in  the  various  parts 
of  the  building.  Again  and  again  the  cheers  rose,  vio- 
lent hip-hip-hurrahs  and  tigers,  while  from  all  corners 
and  parts  of  the  floor  men  and  boys  came  scurrying 
up.  Visitors  in  the  gallery  leaned  eagerly  upon  the 
railing.  Over  in  the  provision  pit,  trading  ceased  for 
the  moment,  and  all  heads  were  turned  towards  the 
commotion  of  the  wheat  traders. 

“ Ah,”  commented  Crookes,  “ they  did  get  it  there  at 
last.” 

For  the  hand  on  the  dial  had  suddenly  jumped  an- 
other degree,  and  not  a messenger  boy,  not  a porter, 
not  a janitor,  none  whose  work  or  life  brought  him  in 


273 


A Stoiy  of  Chicago 

I touch  with  the  Board  of  Trade,  that  did  not  feel  the 
thrill.  The  news  flashed  out  to  the  world  on  a hun- 
dred telegraph  wires;  it  was  called  to  a hundred  of- 
; flees  across  the  telephone  lines.  From  every  doorway, 
even,  as  it  seemed,  from  every  window  of  the  building, 
spreading  thence  all  over  the  city,  the  State,  the  North- 
J west,  the  entire  nation,  sped  the  magic  words,  “ Dollar 
I wheat.” 

j Crookes  turned  to  Cressler. 

I “ Can  you  lunch  with  me  to-day — at  Kinsley’s?  I’d 
j like  to  have  a talk  with  you.” 

And  as  soon  as  Cressler  had  accepted  the  invitation, 
i Crookes,  with  a succinct  nod,  turned  upon  his  heel  and 
|,  walked  away. 

i At  Kinsley’s  that  day,  in  a private  room  on  the  sec- 
; ond  floor,  Cressler  met  not  only  Crookes,  but  his  as- 
I sociate  Sweeny,  and  another  gentleman  by  the  name  of 
i Freye,  the  latter  one  of  his  oldest  and  best-liked  friends. 

Sweeny  was  an  Irishman,  florid,  flamboyant,  talka- 
tive, who  spoke  with  a faint  brogue,  and  who  tagged 
every  observation,  argument,  or  remark  with  the 
phrase,  “ Do  you  understand  me,  gen’lemen?  ” Freye, 
a German-American,  was  a quiet  fellow,  very  hand- 
some, with  black  side  whiskers  and  a humourous,  twink- 
ling eye.  The  three  were  members  of  the  Board  of 
Trade,  and  were  always  associated  with  the  Bear  forces. 
Indeed,  they  could  be  said  to  be  its  leaders.  Between 
them,  as  Cressler  afterwards  was  accustomd  to  say, 
“ They  could  have  bought  pretty  much  all  of  the  West 
Side.” 

And  during  the  course  of  the  luncheon  these  three, 
with  a simplicity  and  a directness  that  for  the  moment 
left  Cressler  breathless,  announced  that  they  were  pre- 
paring to  drive  the  Unknown  Bull  out  of  the  Pit,  and 
asked  him  to  become  one  of  the  clique. 


The  Fit 


274 

Crookes,  whom  Cressler  intuitively  singled  out  as  the 
leader,  did  not  so  much  as  open  his  mouth  till  Sweeny 
had  talked  himself  breathless,  and  all  the  preliminaries 
were  out  of  the  way.  Then  he  remarked,  his  eye  as 
lifeless  as  the  eye  of  a fish,  his  voice  as  expressionless 
as  the  voice  of  Fate  itself: 

“ I don’t  know  who  the  big  Bull  is,  and  I don’t  care 
a curse.  But  he  don’t  suit  my  book.  I want  him  out 
of  the  market.  We’ve  let  him  have  his  way  now  for 
three  or  four  months.  We  figured  we’d  let  him  run  to 
the  dollar  mark.  The  May  option  closed  this  morn- 
ing at  a dollar  and  an  eighth.  . . . Now  we  take 
hold.” 

“But,”  Cressler  hastened  to  object,  “you  forget — 
I’m  not  a speculator.” 

Freye  smiled,  and  tapped  his  friend  on  the  arm. 

“ I guess,  Charlie,”  he  said,  “ that  there  won’t  be 
much  speculating  about  this.” 

“ Why,  gen’lemen,”  cried  Sweeny,  brandishing  a fork, 
“ we’re  going  to  sell  him  right  out  o’  the  market,  so 
we  are.  Simply  flood  out  the  son-of-a-gun — ^you  under- 
stand me,  gen’lemen?” 

Cressler  shook  his  head. 

“ No,”  he  answered.  “ No,  you  must  count  me  out. 
I quit  speculating  years  ago.  And,  besides,  to  sell  short 
on  this  kind  of  market — I don’t  need  to  tell  you  what 
you  risk.” 

“ Risk  hell!  ” muttered  Crookes. 

“ Well,  now.  I’ll  explain  to  you,  Charlie,”  began 
Freye. 

The  other  two  withdrew  a little  from  the  conversa* 
tion.  Crookes,  as  ever  monosyllabic,  took  himself  off 
in  a little  while,  and  Sweeny,  his  chair  tipped  back 
against  the  wall,  his  hands  clasped  behind  his  head, 
listened  to  Freye  explaining  to  Cressler  the  plans  of  the 
proposed  clique  and  the  lines  of  their  attack. 


A Story  of  Chicago 


275 


He  talked  for  nearly  an  hour  and  a half,  at  the  end 
of  which  time  the  lunch  table  was  one  litter  of  papers — 
letters,  contracts,  warehouse  receipts,  tabulated  statis- 
tics, and  the  like. 

“ Well,”  said  Freye,  at  length,  “ well,  Charlie,  do  you 
see  the  game?  What  do  you  think  of  it?  ” 

“ It’s  about  as  ingenious  a scheme  as  I ever  heard 
of,  Billy,”  answered  Cressler.  “ You  can’t  lose,  with 
Crookes  back  of  it.” 

“ Well,  then,  we  can  count  you  in,  hey?  ” 
j “ Count  nothing,”  declared  Cressler,  stoutly.  “ I 
! don’t  speculate.” 

! “But  have  you  thought  of  this?”  urged  Freye,  and 
jwent  over  the  entire  proposition,  from  a fresh  point  of 
iview,  winding  up  with  the  exclamation:  “ Why,  Charlie, 

; we’re  going  to  make  our  everlasting  fortunes.” 

“ I don’t  want  any  everlasting  fortune,  Billy  Freye,” 
protested  Cressler.  “ Look  here,  Billy.  You  must  re- 
member I’m  a pretty  old  cock.  You  boys  are  all 
, youngsters.  I’ve  got  a little  money  left  and  a little 
‘ business,  and  I want  to  grow  old  quiet-like.  I had  my 
: fling,  you  know,  when  you  boys  were  in  knickerbockers, 
j Now  you  let  me  keep  out  of  all  this.  You  get  some  one 
else.” 

“ No,  we’ll  be  jiggered  if  we  do,”  exclaimed  Sweeny. 
“Say,  are  ye  scared  we  can’t  buy  that  trade  journal? 
Why,  we  have  it  in  our  pocket,  so  we  have.  D’ye 
think  Crookes,  now,  couldn’t  make  Bear  sentiment  with 
the  public,  with  just  the  lift  o’  one  forefinger?  Why,  he 
owns  most  of  the  commercial  columns  of  the  dailies 
already.  D’ye  think  he  couldn’t  swamp  that  market 
with  sellin’  orders  in  the  shorter  end  o’  two  days? 
D’ye  think  we  won’t  all  hold  together,  now?  Is  that 
the  bug  in  the  butter?  Sure,  now,  listen.  Let  me  tell 


276 


The  Pit 


“ You  can’t  tell  me  anything  about  this  scheme  that 
you’ve  not  told  me  before,”  declared  Cressler.  " You’ll 
win,  of  course.  Crookes  & Co.  are  like  Rothschild 
— earthquakes  couldn’t  budge  ’em.  But  I promised 
myself  years  ago  to  keep  out  of  the  speculative  market, 
and  I mean  to  stick  by  it.” 

“ Oh,  get  on  with  you,  Charlie,”  said  Freye,  good- 
humouredly,  “ you’re  scared.” 

“ Of  what,”  asked  Cressler,  “ speculating?  You  bet 
I am,  and  when  you’re  as  old  as  I am,  and  have  been 
through  three  panics,  and  have  known  what  it  meant 
to  have  a corner  bust  under  you,  you’ll  be  scared  of 
speculating  too.” 

“ But  suppose  we  can  prove  to  you,”  said  Sweeny, 
all  at  once,  “ that  we’re  not  speculating — that  the  other 
fellow,  this  fool  Bull  is  doing  the  speculating?  ” 

“ I’ll  go  into  anything  in  the  way  of  legitimate  trad- 
ing,” answered  Cressler,  getting  up  from  the  table. 
“You  convince  me  that  your  clique  is  not  a specula- 
tive clique,  and  I’ll  come  in.  But  I don’t  see  how  your 
deal  can  be  anything  else.” 

“ Will  you  meet  us  here  to-morrow?  ” asked  Sweeny, 
as  they  got  into  their  overcoats. 

“ It  won’t  do  you  any  good,”  persisted  Cressler. 

“Well,  will  you  meet  us  just  the  same?”  the  other 
insisted.  And  in  the  end  Cressler  accepted. 

On  the  steps  of  the  restaurant  they  parted,  and  the 
two  leaders  watched  Cressler’s  broad,  stooped  shoulders 
disappear  down  the  street. 

“ He’s  as  good  as  in  alread}",”  Sweeny  declared. 
“ I’ll  fix  him  to-morrow.  Once  a speculator,  always  a 
speculator.  He  was  the  cock  of  the  cow-yard  in  his 
day,  and  the  thing  is  in  the  blood.  He  gave  himself 
clean,  clean  away  when  he  let  out  he  was  afraid  o’ 
speculating.  You  can’t  be  afraid  of  anything  that  ain’t 
got  a hold  on  you.  Y’  understand  me.  now?  ** 


A Story  ot  Chicago 


277 


“ Well,”  observed  Freye,  “ we’ve  got  to  get  him  in.” 

“ Talk  to  me  about  that  now,”  Sweeny  answered, 
“I’m  new  to  some  parts  o’  this  scheme  o’  yours  yet. 
Why  is  Crookes  so  keen  on  having  him  in?  I’m  not 
ISO  keen.  We  could  get  along  without  him.  He  ain’t 
■ so  god-awful  rich,  y’  know.” 

“ No,  but  he’s  a solid,  conservative  cash  grain  man,” 
answered  Freye,  “ who  hasn’t  been  associated  with 
speculating  for  years.  Crookes  has  got  to  have  that 
element  in  the  clique  before  we  can  approach  Stires  & 
Co.  We  may  have  to  get  a pile  of  money  from  them, 
and  they’re  apt  to  be  scary  and  cautious.  Cressler 
being  in,  do  you  see,  gives  the  clique  a substantial, 
conservative  character.  You  let  Crookes  manage  it. 
He  knows  his  business.” 

“ Say,”  exclaimed  Sweeny,  an  idea  occurring  to  him, 
“ I thought  Crookes  was  going  to  put  us  wise  to-day. 
He  must  know  by  now  who  the  Big  Bull  is.” 

“ No  doubt  he  does  know,”  answered  the  other. 
“ He’ll  tell  us  when  he’s  ready.  But  I think  I could 
copper  the  individual.  There  was  a great  big  jag  of 
wheat  sold  to  Liverpool  a little  while  ago  through 
Gretry,  Converse  & Co.,  who’ve  been  acting  for  Cur- 
tis Jadwin  for  a good  many  years.” 

“ Oh,  Jadwin,  hey?  Hi!  we’re  after  big  game  now. 
I’m  thinking.” 

“ But  look  here,”  warned  Freye.  “ Here’s  a point. 
Cressler  is  not  to  know  by  the  longest  kind  of  chalk; 
anyhow  not  until  he’s  so  far  in,  he  can’t  pull  out.  He 
and  Jadwin  are  good  friends.  I’m  told.  Hello,  it’s  rain- 
ing a little.  Well,  I’ve  got  to  be  moving.  See  you  at 
lunch  to-morrow.” 

As  Cressler  turned  into  La  Salle  Street  the  light 
sprinkle  of  rain  suddenly  swelled  to  a deluge,  and  he 
had  barely  time  to  dodge  into  the  portico  of  the  Illi- 


278 


The  Pit 


nois  Trust  to  escape  a drenching.  All  the  passers-by 
close  at  hand  were  making  for  the  same  shelter,  and 
among  these  Cressler  was  surprised  to  see  Curtis  Jad- 
win,  who  came  running  up  the  narrow  lane  from  the 
cafe  entrance  of  the  Grand  Pacific  Hotel. 

“Hello!  Hello,  J.,”  he  cried,  when  his  friend  came 
panting  up  the  steps,  “ as  the  whale  said  to  Jonah, 
‘ Come  in  out  of  the  wet.’  ” 

The  two  friends  stood  a moment  under  the  portico, 
their  coat  collars  turned  up,  watching  the  scurrying 
in  the  street. 

“ Well,”  said  Cressler,  at  last,  “ I see  we  got  ‘ dollar 
wheat  ’ this  morning.” 

“ Yes,”  answered  Jadwin,  nodding,  “ ‘ dollar  wheat.’  ” 

“ I suppose,”  went  on  Cressler,  “ I suppose  you  are 
sorry,  now  that  you’re  not  in  it  any  more.” 

“ Oh,  no,”  replied  Jadwin,  nibbling  off  the  end  of  a 
cigar.  “ No,  I’m — I’m  just  as  well  out  of  it.” 

“ And  it’s  for  good  and  all  this  time,  eh?  ” 

“ For  good  and  all.” 

“ Well,”  commented  Cressler,  “ some  one  else  has  be- 
gun where  you  left  off,  I guess.  This  Unknown  Bull, 
I mean.  All  the  boys  are  trying  to  find  out  who  he  is. 
Crookes,  though,  was  sajdng  to  me — Cal  Crookes,  you 
know — he  was  saying  he  didn’t  care  who  he  was. 
Crookes  is  out  of  the  market,  too,  I understand — and 
means  to  keep  out,  he  says,  till  the  Big  Bull  gets  tired. 
Wonder  who  the  Big  Bull  is.” 

“ Oh,  there  Isn’t  any  Big  Bull,”  blustered  Jadwn. 
“ There’s  simply  a lot  of  heavy  buying,  or  maybe  there 
might  be  a ring  of  New  York  men  operating  through 
Gretry.  I don’t  know;  and  I guess  I’m  like  Crookes, 
I don’t  care — now  that  I’m  out  of  the  game.  Real 
estate  is  too  lively^  now  to  think  of  anything  else;  keeps 
me  on  the  keen  Jump  early  and  late.  I tell  j'ou  what, 


A Story  of  Chicago  279 

Charlie,  this  city  isn’t  half  grown  yet.  And  do  you 
know,  I’ve  noticed  another  thing — cities  grow  to  the 
westward.  I’ve  got  a building  and  loan  association 
going,"  out  in  the  suburbs  on  the  West  Side,  that’s  a 
dandy.  Well,  looks  as  though  the  rain  had  stopped. 
Remember  me  to  madam.  So  long,  Charlie.” 

On  leaving  Cressler  Jadwin  went  on  to  his  offices  in 
The  Rookery,  close  at  hand.  But  he  had  no  more  than 
settled  himself  at  his  desk,  when  he  was  called  up  on 
his  telephone. 

“ Hello!  ” said  a small,  dry  transformation  of  Gretry’s 
voice.  “ Hello,  is  that  you,  J.?  Well,  in  the  matter  of 
that  cash  wheat  in  Duluth,  I’ve  bought  that  for  you.” 

“ All  right,”  answered  Jadwin,  then  he  added,  “ I 
guess  we  had  better  have  a long  talk  now.” 

“ I was  going  to  propose  that,”  answered  the  broker. 
“ Meet  me  this  evening  at  seven  at  the  Grand  Pacific. 
It’s  just  as  well  that  we’re  not  seen  together  nowadays. 
Don’t  ask  for  me.  Go  right  into  the  smoking-room. 
I’ll  be  there.  And,  by  the  way,  I shall  expect  a reply 
from  Minneapolis  about  half-past  five  this  afternoon. 
I would  like  to  be  able  to  get  at  you  at  once  when  that 
comes  in.  Can  you  wait  down  for  that?  ” 

“ Well,  I was  going  home,”  objected  Jadwin.  “ ] 

wasn’t  home  to  dinner  last  night,  and  Mrs.  Jadwin ” 

“ This  is  pretty  important,  you  know,”  warned  the 
broker.  “ And  if  I call  you  up  on  your  residence  tele- 
phone, there’s  always  the  chance  of  somebody  cutting 
in  and  overhearing  us.” 

“ Oh,  very  well,  then,”  assented  Jadwin.  “ I’ll  call  it 
a day.  I’ll  get  home  for  luncheon  to-morrow.  It  can’t 
be  helped.  By  the  way,  I met  Cressler  this  afternoon, 
Sam,  and  he  seemed  sort  of  suspicious  of  things,  to  me 

— as  though  he  had  an  inkling ” 

“ Better  hang  up,”  came  back  the  broker’s  voice. 


The  Pit 


“ Better  hang  up,  J.  There’s  big  risk  telephoning  like 
this.  I’ll  see  you  to-night.  Good-by.” 

And  so  it  was  that  about  half  an  hour  later  Laura 
was  called  to  the  telephone  in  the  library. 

“Oh,  not  coming  home  at  all  to-night?”  she  cried 
blankly  in  response  to  Jadwn’s  message. 

“ It’s  just  impossible,  old  girl,”  he  answered. 

“ But  why?  ” she  insisted. 

“ Oh,  business;  this  building  and  loan  association  of 
mine.” 

“ Oh,  I know  it  can’t  be  that.  Why  don’t  you  let  Mr. 
Gretry  manage  your ” 

But  at  this  point  Jadwin,  the  warning  of  Gretry  still 
fresh  in  his  mind,  interrupted  quickly: 

“ I must  hang  up  now,  Laura.  Good-by.  I’ll  see  you 
to-morrow  noon  and  explain  it  all  to  you.  Good- 
by.  . . . Laura.  . . . Hello!  . . . Are  you 

there  yet?  . . . Hello,  hello!  ” 

But  Jadwin  had  heard  in  the  receiver  the  rattle  and 
click  as  of  a tiny  door  closing.  The  receiver  was  silent 
and  dead;  and  he  knew  that  his  wife,  disappointed  and 
angry,  had  “ hung  up  ” without  saying  good-by. 

The  days  passed.  Soon  another  week  had  gone  by. 
The  wheat  market  steadied  down  after  the  dollar  mark 
was  reached,  and  for  a few  days  a calmer  period  inter- 
vened. Down  beneath  the  surface,  below  the  ebb  and 
flow  of  the  currents,  the  great  forces  were  silently  at 
work  reshaping  the  “ situation.”  IMillions  of  dollars 
were  beginning  to  be  set  in  motion  to  govern  the  mil- 
lions of  bushels  of  wheat.  At  the  end  of  the  third  w'eek 
of  the  month  Freye  reported  to  Crookes  that  Cressler 
was  “ in,”  and  promptly  negotiations  were  opened  be- 
tween the  clique  and  the  great  banking  house  of  the 
Stires.  But  meanwhile  Jadwin  and  Gretry,  foreseeing 
no  opposition,  realising  the  incalculable  advantage  that 


28i 


A Story  of  Chicago 


their  knowledge  of  the  possibility  of  a “ corner  ” gave 
them,  were,  quietly  enough,  gathering  in  the  grain. 
As  early  as  the  end  of  March  Jadwin,  as  incidental  to 
his  contemplated  corner  of  May  wheat,  had  bought  up 
a full  half  of  the  small  supply  of  cash  wheat  in  Duluth, 
Chicago,  Liverpool  and  Paris — some  twenty  million 
bushels;  and  against  this  had  sold  short  an  equal 
amount  of  the  July  option.  Having  the  actual  wheat 
in  hand  he  could  not  lose.  If  wheat  went  up,  his  twenty 
million  bushels  were  all  the  more  valuable;  if  it  went 


ij  down,  he  covered  his  short  sales  at  a profit.  And  all 
I the  while,  steadily,  persistently,  he  bought  May  wheat, 
till  Gretry’s  book  showed  him  to  be  possessed  of  over 


? twenty  million  bushels  of  the  grain  deliverable  for  that 


nth. 


LBut  all  this  took  not  only  his  every  minute  of  time, 
but  his  every  thought,  his  every  consideration.  He  who 
had  only  so  short  a while  before  considered  the  amount 
of  five  milKon  bushels  burdensome,  demanding  careful 
attention,  was  now  called  upon  to  watch,  govern,  and 
control  the  tremendous  forces  latent  in  a line  of  forty 
million.  At  times  he  remembered  the  Curtis  Jadwin  of 
the  spring  before  his  marriage,  the  Curtis  Jadwin  who 
had  sold  a pitiful  million  on  the  strength  of  the  news  of 
the  French  import  duty,  and  had  considered  the  deal 
“ big.”  Well,  he  was  a different  man  since  that  time. 
Then  he  had  been  suspicious  of  speculation,  had  feared 
it  even.  Now  he  had  discovered  that  there  were  in  him 
powers,  capabilities,  and  a breadth  of  grasp  hitherto 
unsuspected.  He  could  control  the  Chicago  wheat 
market;  and  the  man  who  could  do  that  might  well  call 
himself  “ great,”  without  presumption.  He  knew  that 
he  overtopped  them  all — Gretry,  the  Crookes  gang, 
the  arrogant,  sneering  Bears,  all  the  men  of  the  world 
of  the  Board  of  Trade.  He  was  stronger,  bigger, 


282 


The  Pit 


shrewder  than  them  all.  A few  days  now  would  show, 
when  they  would  all  wake  to  the  fact  that  wheat,  which 
they  had  promised  to  deliver  before  they  had  it  in  hand, 
was  not  to  be  got  except  from  him — and  at  whatever 
price  he  chose  to  impose.  He  could  exact  from  them 
a hundred  dollars  a bushel  if  he  chos^  and  they  must 
pay  him  the  price  or  become  bankrupts^ 

By  now  his  mind  was  upon  this  one  great  fact — May 
Wheat — continually.  It  was  with  him  the  instant  he 
woke  in  the  morning.  It  kept  him  company  during  his 
hasty  breakfast;  in  the  rhythm  of  his  horses’  hoofs, 
as  the  team  carried  him  down  town  he  heard,  “ Wheat — 
wheat — wheat,  wheat — wheat — wheat.”  No  sooner  did 
he  enter  La  Salle  Street,  than  the  roar  of  traffic  came  to 
his  ears  as  the  roar  of  the  torrent  of  wheat  which  drove 
through  Chicago  from  the  Western  farms  to  the  mills 
and  bakeshops  of  Europe.  There  at  the  foot  of  the 
street  the  torrent  swirled  once  upon  itself,  forty  mil- 
lion strong,  in  the  eddy  which  he  told  himself  he  mas- 
tered. The  afternoon  waned,  night  came  on.  The  day’s 
business  was  to  be  gone  over;  the  morrow’s  campaign 
was  to  be  planned;  little,  unexpected  side  issues,  a score 
of  them,  a hundred  of  them,  cropped  out  from  hour  to 
hour;  new  decisions  had  to  be  taken  each  minute.  At 
dinner  time  he  left  the  office,  and  his  horses  carried  him 
home  again,  while  again  their  hoofs  upon  the  asphalt 
beat  out  unceasingly  the  monotone  of  the  one  refrain, 
“ Wheat — wheat — wheat,  wheat — ^wheat — wheat.”  At 
dinner  table  he  could  not  eat.  Between  each  course  he 
found  himself  going  over  the  day’s  work,  testing  it, 
questioning  himself,  “ Was  this  rightly  done?  ” “ Was 

that  particular  decision  sound?”  “ Is  there  a loophole 
here?”  “Just  what  was  the  meaning  of  that  de- 
spatch? ” After  the  meal  the  papers,  contracts,  statis- 
tics and  reports  which  he  had  brought  with  him  in  his 


A Story  of  Chicago 


283 


I Gladstone  bag  were  to  be  studied.  As  often  as  not 
Gretry  called,  and  the  two,  shut  in  the  library,  talked, 
discussed,  and  planned  till  long  after  midnight. 

Then  at  last,  when  he  had  shut  the  front  door  upon 
I his  lieutenant  and  turned  to  face  the  empty,  silent  house, 
came  the  moment’s  reaction.  The  tired  brain  flagged 
I and  drooped;  exhaustion,  like  a weight  of  lead,  hung 
‘iupon  his  heels.  But  somewhere  a hall  clock  struck, 
a single,  booming  note,  like  a gong — like  the  signal 
that  would  unchain  the  tempest  in  the  Pit  to-morrow 
morning.  Wheat  — • wheat  — wheat,  w'heat  — ■ wheat — 
wheat ! Instantly  the  jaded  senses  braced  again,  in- 
stantly the  wearied  mind  sprang  to  its  post.  He  turned 
out  the  lights,  he  locked  the  front  door.  Long  since 
the  great  house  was  asleep.  In  the  cold,  dim  silence  of 
the  earliest  dawn  Curtis  Jadwin  went  to  bed,  only  to  lie 
awake,  staring  up  into  the  darkness,  planning,  devising 
I! new  measures,  reviewing  the  day’s  doings,  while  the 
I faint  tides  of  blood  behind  the  eardrums  murmured 
ceaselessly  to  the  overdriven  brain,  “ Wheat — ^wheat — 
wheat,  wheat — wheat — wheat.  Forty  million  bushels, 
forty  million,  forty  million.” 

Whole  days  now  went  by  when  he  saw  his  wife  only 
at  breakfast  and  at  dinner.  At  times  she  was  angry, 
hurt,  and  grieved  that  he  should  leave  her  so  much 
alone.  But  there  were  moments  when  she  was  sorry 
for  him.  She  seemed  to  divine  that  he  was  not  all  to 
blame. 

• What  Laura  thought  he  could  only  guess.  She  no 
longer  spoke  of  his  absorption  in  business.  At  times 
he  thought  he  saw  reproach  and  appeal  in  her  dark  eyes, 
at  times  anger  and  a pride  cruelly  wounded.  A few 
months  ago  this  would  have  touched  him.  But  now  he 
all  at  once  broke  out  vehemently: 

“ You  think  I am  wilfully  doing  this ! You  don’t 


284 


The  Pit 


know,  you  haven’t  a guess.  I corner  the  wheat ! Great 
heavens,  it  is  the  wheat  that  has  cornered  me!  The 
corner  made  itself.  I happened  to  stand  between  two 
sets  of  circumstances,  and  they  made  me  do  what 
I’ve  done.  I couldn’t  get  out  of  it  now,  with  all  the 
good  will  in  the  world.  Go  to  the  theatre  to-night 
with  you  and  the  Cresslers?  Why,  old  girl,  you  might 
as  well  ask  me  to  go  to  Jericho.  Let  that  Mr.  Corthell 
take  m.y  place.” 

And  .very  naturally  this  is  what  was  done.  The  artist 
sent  a great  bunch  of  roses  to  Mrs.  Jadwin  upon  the 
receipt  of  her  invitation,  and  after  the  play  had  the  party 
to  supper  in  his  apartments,  that  overlooked  the  Lake 
Front.  Supper  over,  he  escorted  her,  Mrs.  Cressler,  and 
Page  back  to  their  respective  homes. 

By  a coincidence  that  struck  them  all  as  very  amus- 
ing, he  was  the  only  man  of  the  party.  At  the  last  mo- 
ment Page  had  received  a telegram  from  Landry.  He 
was,  it  appeared,  sick,  and  in  bed.  The  day’s  work  on 
the  Board  of  Trade  had  quite  used  him  up  for  the  mo- 
ment, and  his  doctor  forbade  him  to  stir  out  of  doors. 
Mrs.  Cressler  explained  that  Charlie  had  something  on 
his  mind  these  days,  that  was  making  an  old  man  of  him. 

“ He  don’t  ever  talk  shop  with  me,”  she  said.  “ I’m 
sure  he  hasn’t  been  speculating,  but  he’s  worried  and 
fidgety  to  beat  all  I ever  saw,  this  last  week;  and  now  . 
this  evening  he  had  to  take  himself  off  to  meet  some  » 
customer  or  other  at  the  Palmer  House.”  | 

They  dropped  Mrs.  Cressler  at  the  door  of  her  home,  j 
and  then  went  on  to  the  Jadwins’.  | 

“ I remember,”  said  Laura  to  Corthell,  “ that  once  be-  1 
fore  the  three  of  us  came  home  this  way.  Remember?  | 
It  was  the  night  of  the  opera.  That  was  the  night  I 
first  met  Mr.  Jadwin.” 

“ It  was  the  night  of  the  Helmick  failure,”  said  Page, 


285 


A Story  of  Chicago 

seriously,  "and  the  office  buildings  were  all  lit  up. 
I See,”  she  added,  as  they  drove  up  to  the  house,  “ there’s 
a light  in  the  library,  and  it  must  be  nearly  one  o’clock. 
Mr.  Jadwin  is  up  yet.” 

Laura  fell  suddenly  silent.  When  was  it  all  going  to 
I end,  and  how?  Night  after  night  her  husband  shut  him- 
self thus  in  the  library,  and  toiled  on  till  early  dawn. 
She  enjoyed  no  companionship  with  him.  Her  eve- 
nings were  long,  her  time  hung  with  insupportable 
heaviness  upon  her  hands. 

“Shall  you  be  at  home?”  inquired  Corthell,  as  he 
held  her  hand  a moment  at  the  door.  “ Shall  you  be 
i at  home  to-morrow  evening?  May  I come  and  play 
I to  you  again?  ” 

“Yes,  yes,”  she  answered.  “Yes,  I shall  be  home. 
I Yes,  do  come.” 

Laura’s  carriage  drove  the  artist  back  to  his  apart- 
I ments.  All  the  way  he  sat  motionless  in  hiS  place,  look- 
i ing  out  of  the  window  with  unseeing  eyes.  His  ciga- 
; rette  went  out.  He  drew  another  from  his  case,  but 
forgot  to  light  It. 

Thoughtful  and  abstracted  he  slowly  mounted  the 
i stairway — the  elevator  having  stopped  for  the  night— 

, to  his  studio,  let  himself  In,  and,  throwing  aside  his  hat 
and  coat,  sat  down  without  lighting  the  gas  in  front  of 
the  fireplace,  where  (the  weather  being  even  yet  sharp) 

, an  armful  of  logs  smouldered  on  the  flagstones. 

His  man,  Evans,  came  from  out  an  inner  room  to  ask 
if  he  wanted  anything.  Corthell  got  out  of  his  eve- 
ning coat,  and  Evans  brought  him  his  smoking-jacket 
and  set  the  little  table  with  its  long  tin  box  of  cigarettes 
and  ash  trays  at  his  elbow.  Then  he  lit  the  tall  lamp 
of  corroded  bronze,  with  its  heavy  silk  shade,  that 
stood  on  a table  in  the  angle  of  the  room,  drew  the 
curtains,  put  a fresh  log  upon  the  fire,  held  the  tiny 


286 


The  Pit 


silver  alcohol  burner  to  Corthell  while  the  latter  lighted 
a fresh  cigarette,  and  then  with  a murmured  “ Good- 
night, sir,”  went  out,  closing  the  door  with  the  pre- 
caution of  a depredator. 

This  suite  of  rooms,  facing  the  Lake  Front,  was  what 
Corthell  called  “ home,”  Whenever  he  went  away,  he 
left  it  exactly  as  it  was,  in  the  charge  of  the  faithful 
Evans;  and  no  mater  how  long  he  was  absent,  he  never 
returned  thither  without  a sense  of  welcome  and  relief. 
Even  now,  perplexed  as  he  was,  he  was  conscious  of  a 
feeling  of  comfort  and  pleasure  as  he  settled  himself 
in  his  chair. 

The  lamp  threw  a dull  illumination  about  the  room. 
It  was  a picturesque  apartment,  carefully  planned. 
Not  an  object  that  had  not  been  chosen  with  care  and 
the  utmost  discrimination.  The  walls  had  been  treated 
with  copper  leaf  till  they  produced  a sombre,  irides- 
cent effect  of  green  and  faint  gold,  that  suggested  the 
depth  of  a forest  glade  shot  through  with  the  sunset. 
Shelves  bearing  eighteenth-century  books  in  seal  brown 
tree  calf — ^Addison,  the  “ Spectator,”  Junius  and  Racine, 
Rochefoucauld  and  Pascal  hung  against  it  here  and 
there.  On  every  hand  the  eye  rested  upon  some  small 
masterpiece  of  art  or  workmanship.  Now  it  was  an 
antique  portrait  bust  of  the  days  of  decadent  Rome, 
black  marble  with  a bronze  tiara;  now  a framed  page 
of  a fourteenth-century  version  of  “ Li  Quatres  Filz 
d’Aymon,”  with  an  illuminated  letter  of  miraculous 
workmanship;  or  a Renaissance  gonfalon  of  silk  once 
w'hite  but  now  brown  with  age,  yet  in  the  centre  blaz- 
ing with  the  escutcheon  and  quarterings  of  a dead 
queen.  Between  the  windows  stood  an  ivory  statuette 
of  the  “ Venus  of  the  Heel,”  done  in  the  daj's  of  the 
magnificent  Lorenzo.  An  original  Cazin,  and  a chalk 
drawing  by  Baudry  hung  against  the  wall  close  by  to- 


287 


A Story  of  Chicago 

gather  with  a bronze  tablet  by  Saint  Gaudens;  while 
across  the  entire  end  of  the  room  opposite  the  fire- 
place, worked  in  the  tapestry  of  the  best  period  of  the 
northern  French  school,  Halcyone,  her  arms  already 
blossoming  into  wings,  hovered  over  the  dead  body  of 
Ceyx,  his  long  hair  streaming  like  seaweed  in  the  blue 
waters  of  the  ^gean. 

For  a long  time  Corthell  sat  motionless,  looking 
into  the  fire.  In  an  adjoining  room  a clock  chimed  the 
half  hour  of  one,  and  the  artist  stirred,  passing  his  long 
fingers  across  his  eyes. 

After  a long  while  he  rose,  and  going  to  the  fireplace, 
leaned  an  arm  against  the  overhanging  shelf,  and  rest- 
ing his  forehead  against  it,  remained  in  that  position, 
looking  down  at  the  smouldering  logs. 

“ She  is  unhappy,”  he  murmured  at  length.  “ It  is 
not  difficult  to  see  that.  . . . Unhappy  and  lonely. 

Oh,  fool,  fool  to  have  left  her  when  you  might  have 
stayed!  Oh,  fool,  fool,  not  to  find  the  strength  to  leavff 
her  now  when  you  should  not  remain!  ” 

The  following  evening  Corthell  called  upon  Mrs.  Jad- 
win.  She  was  alone,  as  he  usually  found  her.  He  had 
brought  a book  of  poems  with  him,  and  instead  of  pass- 
ing the  evening  in  the  art  gallery,  as  they  had  planned, 
he  read  aloud  to  her  from  Rossetti.  Nothing  could 
have  been  more  conventional  than  their  conversation, 
nothing  more  impersonal.  But  on  his  way  home  one 
feature  of  their  talk  suddenly  occurred  to  him.  It 
struck  him  as  significant ; but  of  what  he  did  not  care  to 
put  into  words.  Neither  he  nor  Laura  had  once  spoken 
of  Jadwin  throughout  the  entire  evening. 

Little  by  little  the  companionship  grew.  Corthell 
shut  his  eyes,  his  ears.  The  thought  of  Laura,  the 
recollection  of  their  last  evening  together,  the  anticipa- 
tion of  the  next  meeting  filled  all  his  waking  hours. 


288 


The  Pit 


He  refused  to  think;  he  resigned  himself  to  the  drift  of 
the  current.  Jadwin  he  rarely  saw.  But  on  those  few 
occasions  when  he  and  Laura’s  husband  met,  he  could 
detect  no  lack  of  cordiality  in  the  other’s  greeting. 
Once  even  Jadwin  had  remarked: 

“ I’m  very  glad  you  have  come  to  see  Mrs.  Jadwin, 
Corthell.  I have  to  be  away  so  much  these  days.  I’m 
afraid  she  would  be  lonesome  if  it  wasn’t  for  some  one 
like  you  to  drop  in  now  and  then  and  talk  art  to  her.” 

By  slow  degrees  the  companionship  trended  toward 
intimacy.  At  the  various  theatres  and  concerts  he  was 
her  escort.  He  called  upon  her  two  or  three  times 
each  week.  At  his  studio  entertainments  Laura  was 
always  present.  How — Corthell  asked  himself — did  she 
regard  the  affair?  She  gave  him  no  sign;  she  never  in- 
timated that  his  presence  was  otherwise  than  agreeable. 
Was  this  tacit  acquiescence  of  hers  an  encouragement? 
Was  she  willing  to  aificher  herself,  as  a married  woman, 
with  a cavalier?  Her  married  life  was  intolerable,  he 
was  sure  of  that;  her  husband  uncongenial.  He  told 
himself  that  she  detested  him. 

Once,  however,  this  belief  was  rather  shocked  by  an 
unexpected  and  (to  him)  an  inconsistent  reaction  on 
Laura’s  part.  She  had  made  an  engagement  with  him 
to  spend  an  afternoon  in  the  Art  Institute,  looking  over 
certain  newly  acquired  canvases.  But  upon  calling  for 
her  an  hour  after  luncheon  he  was  informed  that  Mrs. 
Jadwin  was  not  at  home.  When  next  she  saw  him  she 
told  him  that  she  had  spent  the  entire  day  with  her 
husband.  They  had  taken  an  early  train  and  had  gone 
up  to  Geneva  Lake  to  look  over  their  country  house, 
and  to  prepare  for  its  opening,  later  on  in  the  spring. 
They  had  taken  the  decision  so  unexpectedly  that  she 
had  no  time  to  tell  him  of  the  change  in  her  plans. 
Corthell  wondered  if  she  had — as  a matter  of  fact — 
forgotten  all  about  her  appointment  with  him.  He 


A Story  of  Chicago 


289 


never  quite  understood  the  incident,  and  afterwards 
asked  himself  whether  or  no  he  could  be  so  sure,  after 
all,  of  the  estrangement  between  the  husband  and  wife. 
He  guessed  it  to  be  possible  that  on  this  occasion  Jad- 
wm  had  suddenly  decided  to  give  himself  a holiday,  and 
that  Laura  had  been  quick  to  take  advantage  of  it. 
Was  it  true,  then,  that  Jadwin  had  but  to  speak  the 
word  to  have  Laura  forget  all  else?  Was  it  true  that 
the  mere  nod  of  his  head  was  enough  to  call  her  back 
to  him?  Corthell  was  puzzled.  He  would  not  admit  this 
to  be  true.  She  was,  he  was  persuaded,  a woman  of 
more  spirit,  of  more  pride  than  this  would  seem  to  in- 
dicate. Corthell  ended  by  believing  that  Jadwin  had,  in 
some  way,  coerced  her;  though  he  fancied  that  for  the 
few  days  immediately  following  the  excursion  Laura 
had  never  been  gayer,  more  alert,  more  radiant.  • 

But  the  days  went  on,  and  it  was  easy  to  see  that  his 
business  kept  Jadwin  more  and  more  from  his  wife. 
Often  now,  Corthell  knew,  he  passed  the  night  down 
town,  and  upon  those  occasions  when  he  managed  to 
get  home  after  the  day’s  work,  he  was  exhausted,  worn 
out,  and  went  to  bed  almost  immediately  after  dinner. 
More  than  ever  now  the  artist  and  Mrs.  Jadwin  were 
thrown  together. 

On  a certain  Sunday  evening,  the  first  really  hot  day 
of  the  year,  Laura  and  Page  went  over  to  spend  an  hour 
with  the  Cresslers,  and — as  they  were  all  wont  to  do  in 
the  old  days  before  Laura’s  marriage — the  party  “ sat 
out  on  the  front  stoop.”  For  a wonder,  Jadwin  was 
able  to  be  present.  Laura  had  prevailed  upon  him  to 
give  her  this  evening  and  the  evening  of  the  following 
Wednesday — on  which  latter  occasion  she  had  planned 
that  they  were  to  take  a long  drive  in  the  park  in  the 
buggy,  just  the  two  of  them,  as  it  had  been  in  the  days 
of  their  courtship. 


290 


The  Pit 


Corthell  came  to  the  Cresslers  quite  as  a matter  oi 
course.  He  had  dined  with  the  Jadwins  at  the  great 
North  Avenue  house  and  afterwards  the  three,  prefer- 
ring to  walk,  had  come  down  to  the  Cresslers  on  foot. 

But  evidently  the  artist  was  to  see  but  little  of  Laura 
Jadwin  that  evening.  She  contrived  to  keep  by  her 
husband  continually.  She  even  managed  to  get  him 
away  from  the  others,  and  the  two,  leaving  the  rest  upon 
the  steps,  sat  in  the  parlour  of  the  Cresslers’  house,  talk- 
ing. 

By  and  by  Laura,  full  of  her  projects,  exclaimed : 

“ Where  shall  we  go?  I thought,  perhaps,  we  would 
not  have  dinner  at  home,  but  you  could  come  back  to 
the  house  just  a little — a little  bit — early,  and  you  could 
drive  me  out  to  the  restaurant  there  in  the  park,  and 
we  could  have  dinner  there,  just  as  though  we  weren’t 
married — 'just  as  though  we  were  sweethearts  again. 
Oh,  I do  hope  the  weather  will  be  fine.” 

“ Oh,”  answered  Jadwin,  “ you  mean  Wednesday 
evening.  Dear  old  girl,  honestly,  I — I don’t  believe  I 
can  make  it  after  all.  You  see,  Wednesday ” 

Laura  sat  suddenly  erect. 

“ But  you  said,”  she  began,  her  voice  faltering  a little, 
“ you  said ” 

“ Honey,  I know  I did,  but  you  must  let  me  oflf  this 
time  again.” 

She  did  not  answer.  It  was  too  dark  for  him  to  see 
her  face ; but,  uneasy  at  her  silence,  he  began  an  elab- 
orate explanation.  Laura,  however,  interrupted.  Calmly 
enough,  she  said : 

“ Oh,  that’s  all  right.  No,  no,  I don’t  mind.  Of 
course,  if  you  are  busy.” 

“Well,  you  see,  don’t  you,  old  girl?” 

“ Oh,  yes,  yes,  I see,”  she  answered.  She  rose. 

“ I think,”  she  said,  “ we  had  better  be  going  home. 
Don’t  you  ? ” 


A Story  of  Chicago 


291 


**  Yes,  I do,”  he  assented.  “ I’m  pretty  tired  myself. 
I’ve  had  a hard  day’s  work.  I’m  thirsty,  too,”  he  added, 
as  he  got  up.  “ Would  you  like  to  have  a drink  of 
water,  too  ? ” 

She  shook  her  head,  and  while  he  disappeared  in  the 
direction  of  the  Cresslers’  dining-room,  she  stood  alone 
a moment  in  the  darkened  room  looking  out  into  the 
street.  She  felt  that  her  cheeks  were  hot.  Her  hands, 
hanging  at  her  sides,  shut  themselves  into  tight  fists. 

“ What,  you  are  all  alone  ? ” said  Corthell’s  voice,  be- 
hind her. 

She  turned  about  quickly. 

“ I must  be  going,”  he  said.  “ I came  to  say  good 
:|  night.”  He  held  out  his  hand. 

1 “ Good  night,”  she  answered,  as  she  gave  him  hers, 

j Then  all  at  once  she  added: 

I “ Come  to  see  me  again — soon,  will  you  ? Come 
i Wednesday  night.” 

And  then,  his  heart  leaping  to  his  throat,  Corthell  felt 
her  hand,  as  it  lay  in  his,  close  for  an  instant  firmly 
I about  his  fingers. 

' “ I shall  expect  you  Wednesday  then?  ” she  repeated. 

He  crushed  her  hand  in  his  grip,  and  suddenly  bent 
and  kissed  it. 

“ Good  night,”  she  said,  quietly.  Jadwin’s  step 
[ sounded  at  the  doorway. 

“ Good  night,”  he  whispered,  and  in  another  moment 
was  gone. 

During  these  days  Laura  no  longer  knew  herself. 
At  every  hour  she  changed ; her  moods  came  and  went 
with  a rapidity  that  bewildered  all  those  who  were 
around  her.  At  times  her  gaiety  filled  the  whole  of 
her  beautiful  house ; at  times  she  shut  herself  in  her 
apartments,  denying  herself  to  every  one,  and,  her  head 
bowed  upon  her  folded  arms,  wept  as  though  her  heart 
was  breaking,  without  knowing  why. 


292 


The  Pit 


For  a few  days  a veritable  seizure  of  religious  enthu- 
siasm held  sway  over  her.  She  spoke  of  endowing  a 
hospital,  of  doing  church  work  among  the  “ slums  ” of 
the  city.  But  no  sooner  had  her  friends  readjusted  their 
points  of  view  to  suit  this  new  development  than  she 
was  off  upon  another  tangent,  and  was  one  afternoon 
seen  at  the  races,  with  Mrs.  Gretry,  in  her  showiest  vic- 
toria, wearing  a great  flaring  hat  and  a bouquet  of  crim- 
son flowers. 

She  never  repeated  this  performance,  however,  for  a 
new  fad  took  possession  of  her  the  very  next  day.  She 
memorised  the  role  of  Lady  Macbeth,  built  a stage  in 
the  ballroom  at  the  top  of  the  house,  and,  locking  her- 
self in,  rehearsed  the  part,  for  three  days  uninterrupt- 
edly, dressed  in  elaborate  costume,  declaiming  in  chest 
tones  to  the  empty  room: 

“ ‘ The  raven  himself  is  hoarse  that  croaks  the  en- 
trance of  Duncan  under  my  battlements.’  ” 

Then,  tiring  of  Lady  Macbeth,  she  took  up  Juliet,  Por- 
tia, and  Ophelia ; each  with  appropriate  costumes,  study- 
ing with  tireless  avidity,  and  frightening  Aunt  Wess’ 
with  her  declaration  that  “ she  might  go  on  the  stage 
after  all.”  She  even  entertained  the  notion  of  having 
Sheldon  Corthell  paint  her  portrait  as  Lady  Macbeth. 

As  often  as  the  thought  of  the  artist  presented  itself 
to  her  she  fought  to  put  it  from  her.  Yes,  yes,  he  came 
to  see  her  often,  very  often.  Perhaps  he  loved  her  yet. 
Well,  suppose  he  did?  He  had  always  loved  her.  It 
was  not  wrong  to  have  him  love  her,  to  have  him  with 
her.  Without  his  company,  great  heavens,  her  life 
would  be  lonely  beyond  words  and  beyond  endurance. 
Besides,  was  it  to  be  thought,  for  an  instant,  that  she, 
she,  Laura  Jadwin,  in  her  pitch  of  pride,  with  all  her 
beauty,  with  her  quick,  keen  mind,  was  to  pine,  to  droop, 
to  fade  in  oblivion  and  neglect?  Was  she  to  blame? 


A Story  of  Chicago 


293 


Let  those  who  neglected  her  look  to  it.  Her  youth  was 
all  with  her  yet,  and  all  her  power  to  attract,  to  compel 
I admiration. 

When  Corthell  came  to  see  her  on  the  Wednesday 
evening  in  question,  Laura  said  to  him,  after  a few 
moments’  conversation  in  the  drawing-room : 

“ Oh,  you  remember  the  picture  you  taught  me  to 
appreciate — the  picture  of  the  little  pool  in  the  art 

[gallery,  the  one  you  called  ‘ Despair  ’ ? ” I have  hung 
it  in  my  own  particular  room  upstairs — my  sitting-room 
— so  as  to  have  it  where  I can  see  it  always.  I love  it 
now.  But,”  she  added,  “ I am  not  sure  about  the  light, 
lii  I think  it  could  be  hung  to  better  advantage.”  She 
li  hesitated  a moment,  then,  with  a sudden,  impulsive 
i!  movement,  she  turned  to  him. 

j;  “ Won’t  you  come  up  with  me,  and  tell  me  where  to 
I hang  it  ? ” 

j;  They  took  the  little  elevator  to  the  floor  above,  and 
ij  Laura  led  the  artist  to  the  room  in  question — her  “ sit- 
; ting-room,”  a wide,  airy  place,  the  polished  floor  cov- 
!'  ered  with  deep  skins,  the  walls  wainscotted  half  way  to 
the  ceiling,  in  dull  woods.  Shelves  of  books  were  every- 
j where,  together  with  potted  plants  and  tall  brass  lamps. 

I A long  “ Madeira  ” chair  stood  at  the  window  which 
overlooked  the  park  and  lake,  and  near  to  it  a great 
round  table  of  San  Domingo  mahogany,  with  tea  things 
and  almost  diaphanous  china. 

“ What  a beautiful  room,”  murmured  Corthell,  as  she 
touched  the  button  in  the  wall  that  opened  the  current, 
“ and  how  much  you  have  impressed  your  individuality 
upon  it.  I should  have  known  that  you  lived  here.  If 
you  were  thousands  of  miles  away  and  I had  entered 
here,  I should  have  known  it  was  yours — and  loved  it 
for  such.” 

“ Here  is  the  picture,”  she  said,  indicating  where  it 
hung.  “ Doesn’t  it  seem  to  you  that  the  light  is  bad?  ’* 


The  Pit 


^94 

But  he  explained  to  her  that  it  was  not  so,  and  that 
she  had  but  to  incline  the  canvas  a little  more  from 
the  wall  to  get  a good  ef¥ect. 

“ Of  course,  of  course,”  she  assented,  as  he  held  the 
picture  in  place.  “ Of  course.  I shall  have  it  hung 
over  again  to-morrow.” 

For  some  moments  they  remained  standing  in  the 
centre  of  the  room,  looking  at  the  picture  and  talking 
of  it.  And  then,  without  remembering  just  how  it  had 
happened,  Laura  found  herself  leaning  back  in  the  Ma- 
deira chair,  Corthell  seated  near  at  hand  by  the  round 
table. 

“ I am  glad  you  like  my  room,”  she  said.  “ It  is  here 
that  I spend  most  of  my  time.  Often  lately  I have  had 
my  dinner  here.  Page  goes  out  a great  deal  now,  and 
so  I am  left  alone  occasionally.  Last  night  I sat  here 
in  the  dark  for  a long  time.  The  house  was  so  still, 
everybody  was  out — even  some  of  the  servants.  It 
was  so  warm,  I raised  the  windows  and  I sat  here  for 
hours  looking  out  over  the  lake.  I could  hear  it  lapping 
and  washing  against  the  shore — almost  like  a sea.  And 
it  was  so  still,  so  still;  and  I was  thinking  of  the  time 
when  I was  a little  girl  back  at  Barrington,  years  and 
years  ago,  picking  whortle-berries  down  in  the  ‘ water 
lot,’  and  how  I got  lost  once  in  the  corn — the  stalks 
were  away  above  my  head — and  how  happy  I was  when 
my  father  would  take  me  up  on  the  hay  wagon.  Ah,  I 
was  happy  in  those  days — just  a freckled,  black-haired 
slip  of  a little  girl,  with  my  frock  torn  and  my  hands  all 
scratched  with  the  berry  bushes.” 

She  had  begun  by  dramatising,  but  by  now  she  was 
acting — acting  with  all  her  histrionic  power  at  fullest 
stretch,  acting  the  part  of  a woman  unhappy  amid  luxu- 
ries. who  looked  back  with  regret  and  with  longing  to- 
wards a joyous,  simple  childhood.  She  was  sincere  and 


A Story  of  Chicago 


295 


she  was  not  sincere.  Part  of  her — one  of  those  two 
Laura  Jadwins  who  at  different  times,  but  with  equal 
right  called  themselves  “ I,”  knew  just  what  effect 
her  words,  her  pose,  would  have  upon  a man  who 
sympathised  with  her,  who  loved  her.  But  the  other 
Laura  Jadwin  would  have  resented  as  petty,  as  even 
wrong,  the  insinuation  that  she  was  not  wholly,  thor- 
oughly sincere.  All  that  she  was  saying  was  true.  No 
one,  so  she  believed,  ever  was  placed  before  as  she  was 
placed  now.  No  one  had  ever  spoken  as  now  she  spoke. 
Her  chin  upon  one  slender  finger,  she  went  on,  her  eyes 
growing  wide: 

“ If  I had  only  known  then  that  those  days  were  to  be 
the  happiest  of  my  life.  . . . This  great  house,  all 

the  beauty  of  it,  and  all  this  wealth,  what  does  it  amount 
to  ? ” Her  voice  was  the  voice  of  Phedre,  and  the  ges- 
ture of  lassitude  with  which  she  let  her  arms  fall  into 
her  lap  was  precisely  that  which  only  the  day  before  she 
had  used  to  accompany  Portia’s  plaint  of 

—my  little  body  is  a-weary  of  this  great  world. 

Yet,  at  the  same  time,  Laura  knew  that  her  heart 
was  genuinely  aching  with  real  sadness,  and  that  the 
tears  which  stood  in  her  eyes  were  as  sincere  as  any 
she  had  ever  shed. 

“ All  this  wealth,”  she  continued,  her  head  dropping 
back  upon  the  cushion  of  the  chair  as  she  spoke,  “ what 
does  it  matter;  for  what  does  it  compensate?  Oh,  I 
would  give  it  all  gladly,  gladly,  to  be  that  little  black- 
haired girl  again,  back  in  Squire  Dearborn’s  water  lot; 
with  my  hands  stained  with  the  whortle-berries  and  the 
nettles  in  my  fingers — and  my  little  lover,  who  called  me 
his  beau-heart  and  bought  me  a blue  hair  ribbon,  and 
kissed  me  behind  the  pump  house.” 

“ Ah,”  said  Corthell,  quickly  and  earnestly,  “ that  is 


296 


The  Pit 


the  secret.  It  was  love — even  the  foolish  boy  and  girl 
love — love  that  after  all  made  your  life  sweet  then.” 

She  let  her  hands  fall  into  her  lap,  and,  musing,  turned 
the  rings  back  and  forth  upon  her  fingers. 

“ Don’t  you  think  so  ? ” he  asked,  in  a low  voice. 

She  bent  her  head  slowly,  without  replying.  Then 
for  a long  moment  neither  spoke.  Laura  played  with 
her  rings.  The  artist,  leaning  forward  in  his  chair, 
looked  with  vague  eyes  across  the  room.  And  no  inter- 
val of  time  since  his  return,  no  words  that  had  ever 
passed  between  them,  had  been  so  fraught  with  signifi- 
cance, so  potent  in  drawing  them  together  as  this  brief, 
wordless  moment. 

At  last  Corthell  turned  towards  her. 

“ You  must  not  think,”  he  murmured,  “ that  your  life 
is  without  love  now.  I will  not  have  you  believe  that.” 

But  she  made  no  answer. 

“ If  you  would  only  see,”  he  went  on.  “ If  you  would 
only  condescend  to  look,  you  would  know  that  there  is 
a love  which  has  enfolded  your  life  for  years.  You  have 
shut  it  out  from  you  always.  But  it  has  been  yours, 
just  the  same;  it  has  lain  at  your  door,  it  has  looked — 
oh,  God  knows  with  what  longing ! — through  your  win- 
dows. You  have  never  stirred  abroad  that  it  has  not 
followed  you.  Not  a footprint  of  yours  that  it  does  not 
know  and  cherish.  Do  you  think  that  your  life  is  with- 
out love  ? Why,  it  is  all  around  you — all  around  you  but 
voiceless.  It  has  no  right  to  speak,  it  only  has  the  right 
to  suffer.” 

Still  Laura  said  no  word.  Her  head  turned  from 
him,  she  looked  out  of  the  window,  and  once  more  the 
seconds  passed  while  neither  spoke.  The  clock  on  the 
table  ticked  steadily.  In  the  distance,  through  the  open 
window,  came  the  incessant,  mournful  wash  of  the  lake. 
All  around  them  the  house  was  still.  At  length  Laura 
sat  upright  in  her  cliair 


297 


A Story  of  Chicago 

“ I think  I will  have  this  room  done  over  while  we  are 
away  this  summer,”  she  said.  “ Don’t  you  think  it  would 
ibe  effective  if  the  wainscotting  went  almost  to  the  ceil- 
|ing?  ” 

I He  glanced  critically  about  the  room. 

I “ Very,”  he  answered,  briskly.  “ There  is  no  back- 
1 ground  so  beautiful  as  wood.” 

( “ And  I might  finish  it  off  at  the  top  with  a narrow 

j shelf.” 

“ Provided  you  promised  not  to  put  brass  ‘ plaques  ’ 
'or  pewter  kitchen  ware  upon  it.” 

“ Do  smoke,”  she  urged  him.  “ I know  you  want  to. 
;You  will  find  matches  on  the  table.” 

But  Corthell,  as  he  lit  his  cigarette,  produced  his  own 
match  box.  It  was  a curious  bit  of  antique  silver,  which 
[he  had  bought  in  a Viennese  pawnshop,  heart-shaped 
[and  topped  with  a small  ducal  coronet  of  worn  gold.  On 
'one  side  he  had  caused  his  name  to  be  engraved  in  small 
[script.  Now,  as  Laura  admired  it,  he  held  it  towards 
I her. 

“ An  old  pouncet-box,  I believe,”  he  informed  her, 
I “ or  possibly  it  held  an  ointment  for  her  finger  nails.” 
ijHe  spilled  the  matches  into  his  hand.  “You  see  the 
I red  stain  still  on  the  inside;  and — smell,”  he  added,  as 
* she  took  it  from  him.  “ Even  the  odour  of  the  sulphur 
matches  cannot  smother  the  quaint  old  perfume,  distilled 
I perhaps  three  centuries  ago.” 

I An  hour  later  Corthell  left  her.  She  did  not  follow 
I him  further  than  the  threshold  of  the  room,  but  let  him 
find  his  way  to  the  front  door  alone. 

When  he  had  gone  she  returned  to  the  room,  and  for 
^ a little  while  sat  in  her  accustomed  place  by  the  window 
overlooking  the  park  and  the  lake.  Very  soon  after 
Corthell’s  departure  she  heard  Page,  Landry  Court,  and 
i Mrs.  Wessels  come  in;  then  at  length  rousing  from  her 


298 


The  Pit 


reverie  she  prepared  for  bed.  But,  as  she  passed  the 
round  mahogany  table,  on  her  way  to  her  bedroom,  she 
was  aware  of  a little  object  lying  upon  it,  near  to  where 
she  had  sat. 

“ Oh,  he  forgot  it,”  she  murmured,  as  she  picked  up 
Corthell’s  heart-shaped  match  box.  She  glanced  at  it 
a moment,  indifferently ; but  her  mind  was  full  of  other 
things.  She  laid  it  down  again  upon  the  table,  and 
going  on  to  her  own  room,  went  to  bed. 

Jadwin  did  not  come  home  that  night,  and  in  the 
morning  Laura  presided  at  breakfast  table  in  his  place. 
Landry  Court,  Page,  and  Aunt  Wess’  were  there;  for 
occasionally  nowadays,  when  the  trio  went  to  one  of 
their  interminable  concerts  or  lectures,  Landry  stayed 
over  night  at  the  house. 

“Any  message  for  your  husband,  Mrs.  Jadwin?”  in- 
quired Landry,  as  he  prepared  to  go  down  town  after 
breakfast.  “ I always  see  him  in  Mr.  Gretry’s  office  the 
first  thing.  Any  message  for  him  ? ” 

“ No,”  answered  Laura,  simply. 

“Oh,  by  the  way,”  spoke  up  Aunt  Wess’,  “we  met 
that  Mr.  Corthell  on  the  corner  last  night,  just  as  he 
was  leaving.  I was  real  sorry  not  to  get  home  here 
before  he  left.  I’ve  never  heard  him  play  on  that  big 
organ,  and  I’ve  been  wanting  to  for  ever  so  long.  I 
hurried  home  last  night,  hoping  I might  have  caught 
him  before  he  left.  I was  regularly  disappointed.” 

“ That’s  too  bad,”  murmured  Laura,  and  then,  for  ob- 
scure reasons,  she  had  the  stupidity  to  add : “ And  we 
were  in  the  art  gallery  the  whole  evening.  He  played 
beautifully.” 

Towards  eleven  o’clock  that  morning  Laura  took  her 
usual  ride,  but  she  ’nad  not  been  away  from  the  house 
quite  an  hour  before  she  turned  back. 

All  at  once  she  had  remembered  something.  She  re- 


I 

I A Story  of  Chicago  299 

I turned  homeward,  now  urging  Crusader  to  a flying  gal- 
lop,  now  curbing  him  to  his  slowest  ambling  walk.  That 
j which  had  so  abruptly  presented  itself  to  her  mind  was 
I the  fact  that  Corthell’s  match  box — his  name  engraved 
i across  its  front — still  lay  in  plain  sight  upon  the  table  in 
her  sitting-room — the  peculiar  and  particular  place  of 
I her  privacy. 

! It  was  so  much  her  own,  this  room,  that  she  had  given 
orders  that  the  servants  were  to  ignore  it  in  their  day’s 
I routine.  She  looked  after  its  order  herself.  Yet,  for 
I all  that,  the  maids  or  the  housekeeper  often  passed 
[ through  it,  on  their  way  to  the  suite  beyond,  and  occa- 
|i  sionally  Page  or  Aunt  Wess’  came  there  to  read,  in  her 
f<  absence.  The  family  spoke  of  the  place  sometimes  as 
t the  “ upstairs  sitting-room,”  sometimes  simply  as 
’ “ Laura’s  room.” 

‘ Now,  as  she  cantered  homeward,  Laura  had  it  vividly 
in  her  mind  that  she  had  not  so  much  as  glanced  at  the 
room  before  leaving  the  house  that  morning.  The 
i servants  would  not  touch  the  place.  But  it  was  quite 
! possible  that  Aunt  Wess’  or  Page 

Laura,  the  blood  mounting  to  her  forehead,  struck 
’ the  horse  sharply  with  her  crop.  The  pettiness  of  the 
I predicament,  the  small  meanness  of  her  situation  struck 
across  her  face  like  the  flagellations  of  tiny  whips. 
That  she  should  stoop  to  this ! She  who  had  held  her 
head  so  high. 

Abruptly  she  reined  in  the  horse  again.  No,  she 
would  not  hurry.  Exercising  all  her  self-control,  she 
went  on  her  way  with  deliberate  slowness,  so  that  it  was 
past  twelve  o’clock  when  she  dismounted  under  the 
carriage  porch. 

Her  fingers  clutched  tightly  about  her  crop,  she 
mounted  to  her  sitting-room  and  entered,  closing  the 
door  behind  her. 


300 


The  Pit 


She  went  directly  to  the  table,  and  then,  catching  her 
breath,  with  a quick,  apprehensive  sinking  of  the  heart, 
stopped  short.  The  little  heart-shaped  match  box  was 
gone,  and  on  the  conch  in  the  corner  of  the  room  Page, 
her  book  falle^ to  the  floor  beside  her,  lay  curled  up 
and  asleep.  / 

A loop  eB  her  riding-habit  over  her  arm,  the  toe  of 
her  boof^' tapping  the  floor  nervously,  Laura  stood 
motionless  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  her  lips  tight 
pressed,  the  fingers  of  one  gloved  hand  drumming 
rapidly  upon  her  riding-crop.  She  was  bewildered,  and 
an  anxiety  cruelly  poignant,  a dread  of  something  she 
could  not  name,  gripped  suddenly  at  her  throat. 

Could  she  have  been  mistaken?  Was  it  upon  the 
table  that  she  had  seen  the  match  box  after  all?  If  it 
lay  elsewhere  about  the  room,  she  must  find  it  at  once. 
Never  had  she  felt  so  degraded  as  now,  when,  moving 
with  such  softness  and  swiftness  as  she  could  in  her  agi- 
tation command,  she  went  here  and  there  about  the 
room,  peering  into  the  corners  of  her  desk,  searching 
upon  the  floor,  upon  the  chairs,  everywhere,  any^vhere ; 
her  face  crimson,  her  breath  failing  her,  her  hands  open- 
ing and  shutting. 

But  the  silver  heart  with  its  crown  of  worn  gold  was 
not  to  be  found.  Laura,  at  the  end  of  half  an  hour,  was 
obliged  to  give  over  searching.  She  was  certain  the 
match  box  lay  upon  the  mahogany  table  when  last  she 
left  the  room.  It  had  not  been  mislaid;  of  that  she  was 
now  persuaded. 

But  while  she  sat  at  the  desk,  still  in  habit  and  hat, 
rummaging  for  the  fourth  time  among  the  drawers  and 
shelves,  she  was  all  at  once  aware,  even  without  turning 
around,  that  Page  was  awake  and  watching  her.  Laura 
cleared  her  throat. 

“ Have  you  seen  my  blue  note  paper.  Page  ? ” she 


I A Story  of  Chicago  301 

'I  asked.  “ I want  to  drop  a note  to  Mrs.  Cressler,  right 
away.” 

“ No,”  said  Page,  as  she  rose  from  the  couch.  “ No, 
' I haven’t  seen  it.”  She  came  towards  her  sister  across 
I the  room.  “ I thought,  maybe,”  she  added,  gravely,  as 
she  drew  the  heart-shaped  match  box  from  her  pocket, 
i “ that  you  might  be  looking  for  this.  I took  it.  I 
knew  you  wouldn’t  care  to  have  Mr.  Jadwin  find  it  here.” 
I Laura  struck  the  little  silver  heart  from  Page’s  hand, 
r with  a violence  that  sent  it  spinning  across  the  room, 

!and  sprang  to  her  feet. 

“You  took  it!”  she  cried.  “You  took  it!  How 
dare  you ! What  do  you  mean  ? What  do  I care  if  Cur- 
f tis  should  find  it  here?  What’s  it  to  me  that  he  should 
I know  that  Mr.  Corthell  came  up  here  ? Of  course  he  was 
here.” 

But  Page,  though  very  pale,  was  perfectly  calm  under 
her  sister’s  outburst. 

“ If  you  didn’t  care  whether  any  one  knew  that  Mr. 
f Corthell  came  up  here,”  she  said,  quietly,  “ why  did  you 
jl  tell  us  this  morning  at  breakfast  that  you  and  he  were 
I in  the  art  gallery  the  whole  evening?  I thought,”  she 
I added,  with  elaborate  blandness,  “ I thought  I would 
be  doing  you  a service  in  hiding  the  match  box.” 

" “A  service!  You!  What  have  I to  hide?”  cried 
Laura,  almost  inarticulate.  “ Of  course  I said  we  were 
' in  the  art  gallery  the  whole  evening.  So  we  were.  We 
did — I do  remember  now — we  did  come  up  here  for  an 
instant,  to  see  how  my  picture  hung.  We  went  down- 
stairs again  at  once.  We  did  not  so  much  as  sit  dcwn. 
He  was  not  in  the  room  two  minutes.” 

“ He  was  here,”  returned  Page,  “ long  enough  to 
smoke  half  a dozen  times.”  She  pointed  to  a silver  pen 
tray  on  the  mahogany  table,  hidden  behind  a book  rack 
and  littered  with  the  ashes  and  charred  stumps  of  some 
five  or  six  cigarettes. 


302 


The  Pit 


“ Really,  Laura,”  Page  remarked.  “ Really,  you  man- 
age very  awkwardly,  it  seems  to  me.” 

Laura  caught  her  riding-crop  in  her  right  hand. 

“ Don’t  you — don’t  you  make  me  forget  myself,”  she 
cried,  breathlessly. 

“ It  seems  to  me,”  observed  Page,  quietly,  “ that 
you’ve  done  that  long  since,  yourself.” 

Laura  flung  the  crop  down  and  folded  her  arms. 

“ Now,”  she  cried,  her  eyes  blazing  and  rivetted  upon 
Page’s.  “Now,  just  what  do  you  mean?  Sit  down,” 
she  commanded,  flinging  a hand  towards  a chair,  “ sit 
down,  and  tell  me  just  what  you  mean  by  all  this.” 

But  Page  remained  standing.  She  met  her  sister’s 
gaze  without  wavering. 

“ Do  you  want  me  to  believe,”  she  answered,  “ that  it 
made  no  difference  to  you  that  Mr.  Corthell’s  match 
safe  was  here  ? ” 

“ Not  the  least,”  exclaimed  Laura.  “ Not  the  least.’^ 

“ Then  why  did  you  search  for  it  so  when  you  came 
in?  I was  not  asleep  all  of  the  time.  I saw  you.” 

“ Because,”  answered  Laura,  “ because  — I — be- 
cause— ” Then  all  at  once  she  burst  out  afresh: 
“ Have  I got  to  answer  to  you  for  what  I do?  Have 
I got  to  explain?  All  your  life  long  you’ve  pretended 
to  judge  your  sister.  Now  you’ve  gone  too  far.  Now 
I forbid  it — from  this  day  on.  What  I do  is  my  affair; 
I’ll  ask  nobody’s  advice.  I’ll  do  as  I please,  do  you 
understand?”  The  tears  sprang  to  her  eyes,  the  sobs 
strangled  in  her  throat.  “ I’ll  do  as  I please,  as  I 
please,”  and  with  the  words  she  sank  down  in  the  chair 
by  her  desk  and  struck  her  bare  knuckles  again  and 
again  upon  the  open  lid,  crying  out  through  her  tears 
and  her  sobs,  and  from  between  her  tight-shut  teeth: 
“ I’ll  do  as  I please,  do  you  understand?  As  I please, 
as  I please!  I will  be  happy.  I will,  I will,  I will!  ” 


303 


A Story  of  Chicago 

“ Oh,  darling,  dearest ” cried  Page,  running  for- 

ward. But  Laiu-a,  on  her  feet  once  more,  thrust  her 
back. 

“ Don’t  touch  me,”  she  cried.  “ I hate  you ! ” She 
put  her  fists  to  her  temples  and,  her  eyes  closed,  rocked 
herself  to  and  fro.  “ Don’t  you  touch  me.  Go  away 
from  me;  go  away  from  me.  I hate  you;  I hate  you 
all.  I hate  this  house,  I hate  this  life.  You  are  all  kill- 
ing me.  Oh,  my  God,  if  I could  only  die ! ” 

She  flung  herself  full  length  upon  the  couch,  face 
downward.  Her  sobs  shook  her  from  head  to  foot. 

Page  knelt  at  her  side,  an  arm  about  her  shoulder, 
but  to  all  her  sister’s  consolations  Laura,  her  voice 
muffled  in  her  folded  arms,  only  cried : 

“ Let  me  alone,  let  me  alone.  Don’t  touch  me.” 

For  a time  Page  tried  to  make  herself  heard;  then, 
after  a moment’s  reflection,  she  got  up  and  drew  out 
the  pin  in  Laura’s  hat.  She  took  off  the  hat,  loosened 
the  scarf  around  Laura’s  neck,  and  then  deftly,  silently, 
while  her  sister  lay  inert  and  sobbing  beneath  her  hands, 
removed  the  stiff,  tight  riding-habit.  She  brought  a 
towel  dipped  in  cold  water  from  the  adjoining  room  and 
bathed  Laura’s  face  and  hands. 

But  her  sister  would  not  be  comforted,  would  not 
respond  to  her  entreaties  or  caresses.  The  better  part 
of  an  hour  went  by ; Page,  knowing  her  sister’s  nature, 
in  the  end  held  her  peace,  waiting  for  the  paroxysm  to 
wear  itself  out. 

After  a while  Laura’s  weeping  resolved  Itself  into 
long,  shuddering  breaths,  and  at  length  she  managed  to 
say,  in  a faint,  choked  voice; 

“ Will  you  bring  me  the  cologne  from  my  dressing- 
table,  honey?  My  head  aches  so.” 

And,  as  Page  ran  towards  the  door,  she  added : “And 
my  hand  mirror,  too.  Are  my  eyes  all  swollen?  ” 


304 


The  Pit 


And  that  was  the  last  word  upon  the  subject  between 
the  two  sisters. 

But  the  evening  of  the  same  day,  between  eight  and 
nine  o’clock,  while  Laura  was  searching  the  shelves  of 
the  library  for  a book  with  which  to  while  away  the 
long  evening  that  she  knew  impended,  Corthell’s  card 
was  brought  to  her. 

“ I am  not  at  home,”  she  told  the  servant.  “ Or — > 
wait,”  she  added.  Then,  after  a moment’s  thought,  she 
said;  “Very  well.  Show  him  In  here.” 

Laura  received  the  artist,  standing  very  erect  and  pale 
upon  the  great  white  rug  before  the  empty  fireplace. 
Her  hands  were  behind  her  back  when  he  came  in,  and 
as  he  crossed  the  room  she  did  not  move. 

“ I was  not  going  to  see  you  at  first,”  she  said.  “ I 
told  the  servant  I was  not  at  home.  But  I changed  my 
mind — I wanted  to  say  something  to  you.” 

He  stood  at  the  other  end  of  the  fireplace,  an  elbow 
upon  an  angle  of  the  massive  mantel,  and  as  she  spoke 
the  last  words  he  looked  at  her  quickly.  As  usual,  they 
were  quite  alone.  The  heavy,  muffling  curtain  of  the 
doorway  shut  them  in  effectually. 

“ I have  something  to  say  to  you,”  continued  Laura. 
Then,  quietly  enough,  she  said: 

“ You  must  not  come  to  see  me  any  more.” 

He  turned  abruptly  away  from  her,  and  for  a moment 
did  not  speak.  Then  at  last,  his  voice  low,  he  faced  her 
again  and  asked: 

“ Have  I offended?” 

She  shook  her  head. 

“ No,”  he  said,  quietly.  “ No,  I knew  it  was  not  that.” 
There  was  a long  silence.  The  artist  looked  at  the  floor, 
his  hand  slowly  stroking  the  back  of  one  of  the  big 
leather  chairs. 

“ I knew  it  must  come,”  he  answered,  at  lengfth, 


A Story  of  Chicago 


305 


' “ sooner  or  later.  You  are  right — of  course.  I should 
[ not  have  come  back  to  America.  I should  not  have 
! believed  that  I was  strong  enough  to  trust  myself. 

I Then  ” — he  looked  at  her  steadily.  His  words  came 
I from  his  lips  one  by  one,  very  slowly.  His  voice  was 
I hardly  more  than  a whisper.  “ Then,  I am — never  to 
see  you — again.  . . Is  that  it  ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Do  you  know  what  that  means  for  me  ? ” he  cried. 

“ Do  you  realise ” he  drew  in  his  breath  sharply. 

“ Never  to  see  you  again!  To  lose  even  the  little  that 

is  left  to  me  now.  I — I ” He  turned  away  quickly 

and  walked  to  a window  and  stood  a moment,  his  back 
turned,  looking  out,  his  hands  clasped  behind  him. 
Then,  after  a long  moment,  he  faced  about.  His  man- 
ner was  quiet  again,  his  voice  very  low. 

“ But  before  I go,”  he  said,  “ will  you  answer  me,  at 
least,  this — it  can  do  no  harm  now  that  I am  to  leave  you 
— answer  me,  and  I know  you  will  speak  the  truth : Are 
you  happy,  Laura  ? ” 

She  closed  her  eyes. 

“ You  have  not  the  right  to  know.” 

“ You  are  not  happy,”  he  declared.  “ I can  see  it,  I 
know  it.  If  you  were,  you  would  have  told  me  so. 
. . . If  I promise  you,”  he  went  on.  “ If  I promise 
you  to  go  away  now,  and  never  to  try  to  see  you  again, 
may  I come  once  more — to  say  good-by  ? ” 

She  shook  her  head. 

“ It  is  so  little  for  you  to  grant,”  he  pleaded,  “ and  it 
is  so  incalculably  much  for  me  to  look  forward  to  in  the 
little  time  that  yet  remains.  I do  not  even  ask  to  see 
you  alone.  I will  not  harass  you  with  any  heroics.” 

“ Oh,  what  good  will  it  do,”  she  cried,  wearily,  “ for 
you  to  see  me  again?  Why  will  you  make  me  more 
unhappy  than  I am  ? Why  did  you  come  back  ? ” 


3o6 


The  Pit 


r “ Because,”  he  answered,  steadily,  “because  I love  you 
more  than  ” — he  partly  raised  a clenched  fist  and  let  it 
fall  slowly  upon  the  back  of  the  chair,  “ more  than  any- 
other  consideration  in  the  world.” 

“ Don’t ! ” she  cried.  “ You  must  not.  Never,  never 
say  that  to  me  again.  Will  you  go — ^please  ? ” 

“ Oh,  if  I had  not  gone  from  you  four  years  ago ! ” 
he  cried.  “If  I had  only  stayed  then!  Not  a day  of 
my  life  since  that  I have  not  regretted  it.  You  could 
have  loved  me  then.  I know  it,  I know  it,  and,  God  for- 
give me,  but  I know  you  could  love  me  now ” 

“ Will  you  go  ? ” she  cried. 

“ I dare  you  to  say  you  could  not,”  he  flashed  out. 
Laura  shut  her  eyes  and  put  her  hands  over  her  ears. 
“ I could  not,  I could  not,”  she  murmured,  monoto- 
nously, over  and  over  again.  “ I could  not,  I could  not.” 

She  heard  him  start  suddenly,  and  opened  her  eyes  in 
time  to  see  him  come  quickly  towards  her.  She  threw 
out  a defensive  hand,  but  he  caught  the  arm  itself  to 
him  and,  before  she  could  resist,  had  kissed  it  again  and 
again  through  the  interstices  of  the  lace  sleeve.  Upon 
her  bare  shoulder  she  felt  the  sudden  passion  of  his  lips. 

A quick,  sharp  gasp,  a sudden  qualm  of  breathless- 
ness wrenched  through  her,  to  her  very  finger  tips,  with 
a fierce  leap  of  the  blood,  a wild  bound  of  the  heart. 

She  tore  back  from  him  with  a violence  that  rent  away 
the  lace  upon  her  arm,  and  stood  off  from  him,  erect 
and  rigid,  a fine,  delicate,  trembling  vibrating  through 
all  her  being.  On  her  pale  cheeks  the  colour  suddenly 
flamed. 

“ Go,  go,”  was  all  she  had  voice  to  utter. 

“ And  may  I see  you  once  more — only  once?  ” 

“Yes,  yes,  anything,  only  go,  go — if  you  love  me!  ” 
He  left  the  room.  In  another  moment  she  heard  the 
front  door  close. 


i 


I A Story  of  Chicago  307 

I I “ Curtis,”  said  Laura,  when  next  she  saw  her  husband, 
II  “ Curtis,  you  could  not — stay  with  me,  that  last  time. 
I,  Remember?  When  we  were  to  go  for  a drive.  Can 

I;  you  spend  this  evening  with  me?  Just  us  two,  here  at 
home — or  I’ll  go  out  with  you.  I’ll  do  anything  you 
say.”  She  looked  at  him  steadily  an  instant.  “ It  is 
: not — not  easy  for  a woman  to  ask — for  me  to  ask  fa- 
I vours  like  this.  Each  time  I tell  myself  it  will  be  the 
j last.  I am — you  must  remember  this,  Curtis,  I am — 

I perhaps  I am  a little  proud.  Don’t  you  see?” 

They  were  at  breakfast  table  again.  It  was  the  morn- 
I ing  after  Laura  had  given  Corthell  his  dismissal.  As 
she  spoke  Jadwin  brought  his  hand  down  upon  the  table 
J with  a bang. 

i “You  bet  I will,”  he  exclaimed;  “you  bet  I’ll  stay 
'|i  with  you  to-night.  Business  can  go  to  the  devil ! And 
I we  won’t  go  out  either;  we’ll  stay  right  here.  You  get 
li  something  to  read  *0  me,  and  we’ll  have  one  of  our  old 
I;  evenings  again.  We ” 

All  at  once  Jad\vin  paused,  laid  down  his  knife  and 
fork,  and  looked  strangely  to  and  fro  about  the  room. 

“ We’ll  have  one  of  our  old  evenings  again,”  he  re- 
' peated,  slowly. 

j “ What  is  it,  Curtis?  ” demanded  his  wife.  “ What  is 
the  matter?” 

“ Oh — nothing,”  he  answered. 

“Why,  yes  there  was.  Tell  me.” 

“ No,  no.  I’m  all  right  now,”  he  returned,  briskly 
enough. 

“ No,”  she  insisted.  “ You  must  tell  me.  Are  you 
sick?” 

He  hesitated  a moment.  Then: 

“ Sick  ? ” he  queried.  “ No,  indeed.  But — I’ll  tell  you. 
Since  a few  days  I’ve  had,”  he  put  his  fingers  to  his  fore- 
head between  his  eyes,  “ I’ve  had  a queer  sensation  right 
there.  It  comes  and  goes.”- 


3o8 


The  Pit 


“ A headache  ? ” 

“ N-no.  It’s  hard  to  describe.  A sort  of  numbness. 
Sometimes  it’s  as  though  there  was  a heavy  iron  cap — 
a helmet  on  my  head.  And  sometimes  it — I don’t  know, 
it  seems  as  if  there  were  fog,  or  something  or  other,  in- 
side. I’ll  take  a good  long  rest  this  summer,  as  soon 
as  we  can  get  away.  Another  month  or  six  weeks,  and 
I’ll  have  things  ship-shape  and  so  as  I can  leave  them. 
Then  we’ll  go  up  to  Geneva,  and,  by  Jingo,  I’ll  loaf.” 
He  was  silent  for  a moment,  frowning,  passing  his  hand 
across  his  forehead  and  winking  his  eyes.  Then,  with 
a return  of  his  usual  alertness,  he  looked  at  his  watch. 

“ Hi ! ” he  exclaimed.  “ I must  be  off.  I won’t  be 
home  to  dinner  to-night.  But  you  can  expect  me  by 
eight  o’clock,  sure.  I promise  I’ll  be  here  on  the 
minute.” 

But,  as  he  kissed  his  wife  good-by,  Laura  put  her  arms 
about  his  neck. 

“ Oh,  I don’t  want  you  to  leave  me  at  all,  ever,  ever ! 
Curtis,  love  me,  love  me  always,  dear.  And  be  thought- 
ful of  me  and  kind  to  me.  And  remember  that  you  are 
all  I have  in  the  world;  you  are  father  and  mother  to 
me,  and  my  dear  husband  as  well.  I know  you  do  love 
me ; but  there  are  times — Oh,”  she  cried,  suddenly, 
“ if  I thought  you  did  not  love  me — love  me  better  than 
anything,  anything — I could  not  love  you ; Curtis,  I 
could  not,  I could  not.  No,  no,”  she  cried,  “ don’t  in- 
terrupt. Hear  me  out.  Maybe  it  is  wrong  of  me  to 
feel  that  way,  but  I’m  only  a woman,  dear.  I love  you, 
but  I love  Love  too.  Women  are  like  that ; right  or 
wrong,  weak  or  strong,  they  must  be — must  be  loved 
above  ever>hhing  else  in  the  world.  Now  go,  go  to  your 
business ; you  mustn’t  be  late.  Hark,  there  is  Jarvis 
with  the  team.  Go  now.  Good-by,  good-by,  and  I’ll 
expect  you  at  eight.” 


A Story  of  Chicago  309 

True  to  his  word,  Jadwin  reached  his  home  that  even- 
ing promptly  at  the  promised  hour.  As  he  came  into 
the  house,  however,  the  door-man  met  him  in  the  hall, 
and,  as  he  took  his  master’s  hat  and  stick,  explained  that 
Mrs.  Jadwin  was  in  the  art  gallery,  and  that  she  had  said 
he  was  to  come  there  at  once. 

Laura  had  planned  a little  surprise.  The  art  gallery 
was  darkened.  Here  and  there  behind  the  dull-blue 
shades  a light  burned  low.  But  one  of  the  movable  re- 
flectors that  were  used  to  throw  a light  upon  the 
pictures  in  the  topmost  rows  was  burning  brilliantly. 
It  was  turned  from  Jadwin  as  he  entered,  and  its  broad 
cone  of  intense  white  light  was  thrown  full  upon  Laura, 
who  stood  over  against  the  organ  in  the  full  costume 
of  “ Theodora.” 

For  an  instant  Jadwin  was  taken  all  aback. 

“ What  the  devil ! ” he  ejaculated,  stopping  short  in 
the  doorway. 

Laura  ran  forward  to  him,  the  chains,  ornaments,  and 
swinging  pendants  chiming  furiously  as  she  moved. 

“ I did  surprise  you,  I did  surprise  you,”  she  laughed. 
“ Isn’t  it  gorgeous  ? ” She  turned  about  before  him,  her 
arms  raised.  “ Isn’t  it  superb  ? Do  you  remember 
Bernhardt — and  that  scene  in  the  Emperor  Justinian’s 
box  at  the  amphitheatre?  Say  now  that  your  wife 
isn’t  beautiful.  I am,  am  I not  ? ” she  exclaimed  defi- 
antly, her  head  raised.  “ Say  it,  say  it.” 

“ Well,  what  for  a girl ! ” gasped  Jadwin,  “ to  get  her- 
self up ” 

“ Say  that  I am  beautiful,”  commanded  Laura. 

“ Well,  I just  about  guess  you  are,”  he  cried. 

“The  most  beautiful  woman  you  have  ever  known?  ” 
she  insisted.  Then  on  the  instant  added : “ Oh,  I may 
be  really  as  plain  as  a kitchen-maid,  but  you  must  believe 
that  I am  not.  I would  rather  be  ugly  and  have  you 


310 


The  Pit 


think  me  beautiful,  than  to  be  the  most  beautiful  woman 
in  the  world  and  have  you  think  me  plain.  Tell  me — 
am  I not  the  most  beautiful  woman  you  ever  saw?  ” 

“ The  most  beautiful  I ever  saw,”  he  repeated,  fer- 
vently. “ But — Lord,  what  will  you  do  next  ? What- 
ever put  it  into  your  head  to  get  into  this  rig?  ” 

“ Oh,  I don’t  know.  I just  took  the  notion.  You’ve 
seen  me  in  every  one  of  my  gowns.  I sent  down  for 
this,  this  morning,  just  after  you  left.  Curtis,  if  you 
hadn’t  made  me  love  you  enough  to  be  your  wife,  Laura 
Dearborn  would  have  been  a great  actress.  I feel  it  in 
my  finger  tips.  Ah ! ” she  cried,  suddenly  flinging  up 
her  head  till  the  pendants  of  the  crown  clashed  again. 
“ I could  have  been  magnificent.  You  don’t  believe  it. 
Listen.  This  is  Athalia — the  queen  in  the  Old  Testa- 
ment, you  remember.” 

“ Hold  on,”  he  protested.  “ I thought  you  were  this 
Theodora  person.” 

“ I know — but  never  mind.  I am  anything  I choose. 
Sit  down;  listen.  It’s  from  Racine’s  ‘ Athalie,’  and  the 
wicked  queen  has  had  this  terrible  dream  of  her  mother, 
Jezabel.  It’s  French,  but  I’ll  make  you  see.” 

And  “ taking  stage,”  as  it  were,  in  the  centre  of  the 
room,  Laura  began : 

“Son  ombre  vers  mon  lit  a paru  se  haisser 
Et  moi,  je  lui  tendais  les  mains  pour  i embrasser  ; 

Mais  je  n'ai  plus  trouvd  quun  horrible  melange 
D'os  ei  de  chair  meurtris  et  trainee  dans  la  fange, 

Des  lambeaux pleins  de  sang,  et  des  membres  affreux 
Que  les  chiens  d/vorants  se  disputaient  entre  eux." 

“ Great  God ! ” exclaimed  Jadwin,  ignorant  of  the 
words  yet,  in  spite  of  himself,  carried  away  by  the  fury 
and  passion  of  her  rendering. 

Laura  struck  her  palms  together. 

“ Just  what  ‘ Abner  ’ says,”  she  cried.  “ The  very 
words.” 


A Story  of  Chicago  31 1 

' “Abner?” 

“ In  the  play.  I knew  I could  make  you  feel  it.” 

“ Well,  well,”  murmured  her  husband,  shaking  his 
head,  bewildered  even  yet.  “ Well,  it’s  a strange  wife 
I’ve  got  here.” 

“ When  you’ve  realised  that,”  returned  Laura, 
“ you’ve  just  begun  to  understand  me.” 

Never  had  he  seen  her  gayer.  Her  vivacity  was  be- 
wildering. 

“ I wish,”  she  cried,  all  at  once,  “ I wish  I had  dressed 
as  ‘ Carmen,’  and  I would  have  danced  for  you.  Oh,  and 
you  could  have  played  the  air  for  me  on  the  organ.  I 
have  the  costume  upstairs  now.  Wait ! I will,  I will ! 
Sit  right  where  you  are — no,  fix  the  attachment  to  the 
organ  while  I’m  gone.  Oh,  be  gay  with  me  to-night,” 
she  cried,  throwing  her  arms  around  him.  “ This  is  my 
night,  isn’t  it?  And  I am  to  be  just  as  foolish  as  I 
please.” 

With  the  words  she  ran  from  the  room,  but  was  back 
in  an  incredibly  short  time,  gowned  as  Bizet’s  cigarette 
girl,  a red  rose  in  her  black  hair,  castanets  upon  her 
fingers. 

Jadwin  began  the  bolero. 

“ Can  you  see  me  dance,  and  play  at  the  same  time?  ” 

“Yes,  yes.  Go  on.  How  do  you  know  anything 
about  a Spanish  dance?  ” 

“ I learned  it  long  ago.  I know  everything  about 
anything  I choose,  to-night.  Play,  play  it  fast.” 

She  danced  as  though  she  would  never  tire,  with  the 
same  force  of  passion  that  she  had  thrown  into  “Athalie.” 
Her  yellow  skirt  was  a flash  of  flame  spurting  from  the 
floor,  and  her  whole  body  seemed  to  move  with  the  same 
wild,  untamed  spirit  as  a tongue  of  fire.  The  castanets 
snapped  like  the  crackling  of  sparks ; her  black  mantilla 
was  a hovering  cloud  of  smoke.  She  v/as  incarnate 
flame,  capricious  and  riotous,  elusive  and  dazzling. 


312 


the  Pit 


Then  suddenly  she  tossed  the  castanets  far  across  the 
room  and  dropped  upon  the  couch,  panting  and  laugh- 
ing. 

“ There,”  she  cried,  “ now  I feel  better.  That  had  to 
come  out.  Come  over  here  and  sit  by  me.  Now,  may- 
be you’ll  admit  that  I can  dance  too.” 

“ You  sure  can,”  answered  Jadwin,  as  she  made  a 
place  for  him  among  the  cushions.  “ That  was  wonder- 
ful. But,  at  the  same  time,  old  girl,  I wouldn’t — 
wouldn’t ” 

“Wouldn’t  what?” 

“ Well,  do  too  much  of  that.  It’s  sort  of  over- 
wrought— a little,  and  unnatural.  I like  you  best  when 
you  are  your  old  self,  quiet,  and  calm,  and  dignified.  It’s 
when  you  are  quiet  that  you  are  at  your  best.  I didn’t 
know  you  had  this  streak  in  you.  You  are  that  excit- 
able to-night ! ” 

“ Let  me  be  so  then.  It’s  myself,  for  the  moment, 
whatever  it  is.  But  now  I’ll  be  quiet.  Now  we’ll  talk. 
Have  you  had  a hard  day?  Oh,  and  did  your  head 
bother  you  again  ? ” 

“No,  things  were  a little  easier  down  town  to-day.  But 
that  queer  feeling  in  my  head  did  come  back  as  I was 
coming  home — and  my  head  aches  a little  now,  besides.” 

“Your  head  aches!”  she  exclaimed.  “Let  me  do 
something  for  it.  And  I’ve  been  making  it  worse  with 
all  my  foolishness.” 

“ No,  no ; that’s  all  right,”  he  assured  her.  “ I tell 
you  what  we’ll  do.  I’ll  lie  down  here  a bit,  and  you  play 
something  for  me.  Something  quiet.  I get  so  tired 
down  there  in  La  Salle  Street,  Laura,  you  don’t  know.” 

And  while  he  stretched  out  at  full  length  upon  the 
couch,  his  wife,  at  the  organ,  played  the  music  she  knew 
he  liked  best — old  songs,  “ Daisy  Dean,”  “ Lord 
Lovell,”  “ When  Stars  Are  in  the  Quiet  Sky,”  and 
“ Open  Thv  Lattice  to  Me.” 


I A Story  of  Chicago  313 

Ij  When  at  length  she  paused,  he  nodded  his  head  with 
pleasure. 

“ That’s  pretty,”  he  said.  “ Ah,  that  is  blame  pretty, 
ii  Honey,  it’s  just  like  medicine  to  me,”  he  continued,  “ to 
lie  here,  quiet  like  this,  with  the  lights  low,  and  have  my 
dear  girl  play  those  old,  old  tunes.  My  old  governor, 
I Laura,  used  to  play  that  ‘ Open  the  Lattice  to  me,’  that 
and  ‘ Father,  oh.  Father,  Come  Home  with  me  Now  ’ — 
fused  to  play  ’em  on  his  fiddle.”  His  arm  under  his  head, 
the  went  on,  looking  vaguely  at  the  opposite  wall.  “ Lord 
i love  me,  I can  see  that  kitchen  in  the  old  farmhouse 
as  plain!  The  walls  were  just  logs  and  plaster,  and 
! there  were  upright  supports  in  each  corner,  where  we 
used  to  measure  our  heights — we  children.  And  the  fire- 
place was  there,”  he  added,  gesturing  with  his  arm,  “ and 
there  was  the  wood  box,  and  over  here  was  an  old  kind 
of  dresser  with  drawers,  and  the  torty-shell  cat  always 
had  her  kittens  under  there,  (jioney,  I was  happy  then. 
Of  course  I’ve  got  you  now,  and  that’s  all  the  difference 
in  the  world.  But  you’re_the  only  thing  that  does  make 
a ^difference;  We’ve  got  a fine  place  and  a mint  of 
money  I suppose — and  I’m  proud  of  it.  But  I don’t 
know.  ...  If  they’d  let  me  be  and  put  us  two — 
just  you  and  me — back  in  the  old  house  with  the  bare 
floors  and  the  rawhide  chairs  and  the  shuck  beds,  I 
guess  we’d  manage.  If  you’re  happ^^,  you’re  happy; 
that’s  about. the„size  ofTt  And  sometimes  I think  that 
wed~15eTiappier — you  and  I — chumming  along  shoul- 
der to  shoulder,  poor  an’  working  hard,  than  making 
big  money  an’  spending  big  money,  why — oh,  I don’t 
know  ...  if  you’re  happy,  that’s  the  thing  that 
counts,  and  if  all  this  stuff,”  he  kicked  out  a careless  foot 
at  the  pictures,  the  heavy  hangings,  the  glass  cabinets 
of  bibelots, “if  all  this  stuff  stood  in  the  way  of  it — well — 
it  could  go  to  the  devil ! That’s  not  poetry  maybe,  but 

it’s  the  truth7\ 


314 


The  Pit 


Laura  came  over  to  where  her  husband  lay,  and  sat 
by  him,  and  took  his  head  in  her  lap,  smoothing  his  fore- 
head with  her  long  white  hands. 

“ Oh,  if  I could  only  keep  you  like  this  always,”  she 
murmured.  “ Keep  you  untroubled,  and  kind,  and  true. 
This  is  my  husband  again.  Oh,  you  are  a man,  Curtis ; 
a great,  strong,  kind-hearted  man,  with  no  little  graces, 
nor  petty  culture,  nor  trivial  fine  speeches,  nor  false 
sham,  imitation  polish.  I love  you.  Ah,  I love  you, 
love  you,  dear ! ” 

“ Old  girl ! ” said  Jadwin,  stroking  her  hand. 

“ Do  you  want  me  to  read  to  you  now?  ” she  asked. 

“ Just  this  is  pretty  good,  it  seems  to  me.” 

As  he  spoke,  there  came  a step  in  the  hall  and  a 
knock. 

Laura  sat  up,  frowning. 

“ I told  them  I was  not  to  be  disturbed,”  she  ex-  i 
claimed  under  her  breath.  Then,  “ Come  in,”  she  called. 

“ Mr.  Gretry,  sir,”  announced  the  servant.  “ Said  he 
wished  to  see  you  at  once,  sir.” 

“ Tell  him,”  cried  Laura,  turning  quickly  to  Jadwin, 

“ tell  him  you’re  not  at  home — that  you  can’t  see  him.”  ; 

“ I’ve  got  to  see  him,”  answered  Jadwin,  sitting  up.  ; 
“ He  wouldn’t  come  here  himself  unless  it  was  for  some- 
thing important.” 

“ Can  I come  in,  J.  ? ” spoke  the  broker,  from  the  hall. 
And  even  through  the  thick  curtains  they  could  hear 
how  his  voice  rang  with  excitement  and  anxiety. 

“ Can  I come  in  ? I followed  the  servant  right  up,  ^ 
you  see.  I know ” ; 

“ Yes,  yes.  Come  in,”  answered  Jadwin.  Laura,  her  ; 
face  flushing,  threw  a fold  of  the  couch  cover  over  her  \ 
costume  as  Gretry,  his  hat  still  on  his  head,  stepped 
quickly  into  the  room. 

Jadwin  met  him  half  way,  and  Laura  from  her  place 


A Story  of  Chicago 


315 


on  the  couch  heard  the  rapidly  spoken  words  between 
the  general  and  his  lieutenant. 

“ Now  we’re  in  for  it ! ” Gretry  exclaimed. 

“Yes — ^well?”  Jadwin’s  voice  was  as  incisive  and 
quick  as  the  fall  of  an  axe. 

“ I’ve  just  found  out,”  said  Gretry,  “ that  Crookes 
and  his  crowd  are  going  to  take  hold  to-morrow. 
There’ll  be  hell  to  pay  in  the  morning.  They  are  going 
to  attack  us  the  minute  the  gong  goes.” 

“Who’s  with  them?” 

“ I don’t  know ; nobody  does.  Sweeny,  of  course. 
But  he  has  a gang  back  of  him — besides,  he’s  got  good 
credit  with  the  banks.  I told  you  you’d  have  to  fight 
him  sooner  or  later.” 

“ Well,  we’ll  fight  him  then.  Don’t  get  scared. 
Crookes  ain’t  the  Great  Mogul.” 

“ Holy  Moses,  I’d  like  to  know  who  is,  then.” 

“ I am.  And  he’s  got  to  know  it.  There’s  not  room 
for  Crookes  and  me  in  this  game.  One  of  us  two  has 
got  to  control  this  market.  If  he  gets  in  my  way,  by 
God,  I’ll  smash  him  ! ” 

“ Well,  then,  J.,  you  and  I have  got  to  do  some  tall 
talking  to-night.  You’d  better  come  down  to  the 
Grand  Pacific  Hotel  right  away.  Court  is  there  al- 
ready. It  was  him,  nervy  little  cuss,  that  found  out 
about  Crookes.  Can  you  come  now,  at  once?  Good 
evening,  Mrs.  Jadwin.  I’m  sorry  to  take  him  from  you, 
but  business  is^  business.” 

'"'NoTTTw^  not.  To  the  wife  of  the  great  manipulator, 
listening  with  a sinking  heart  to  this  courier  from  the 
front,  it  was  battle.  The  Battle  of  the  Streets  was  again 
in  array.  Again  the  trumpet  sounded,  again  the  rush 
of  thousands  of  feet  filled  all  the  air.  Even  here,  here  in 
her  home,  her  husband’s  head  upon  her  lap,  in  the  quiet 
and  stillness  of  her  hour,  the  distant  rumble  came  to  her 


3i6 


The  Pit 


ears.  Somewhere,  far  off  there  in  the  darkness  of  the 
night,  the  great  forces  were  manoeuvring  for  position 
once  more.  To-morrow  would  come  the  grapple,  and 
one  or  the  other  must  fall — her  husband  or  the  enemy. 
How  keep  him  to  herself  when  the  great  conflict  im- 
pended ? She  knew  how  the  thunder  of  the  captains  and 
the  shoutings  appealed  to  him.  She  had  seen  him  al- 
most leap  to  his  arms  out  of  her  embrace.  He  was  all 
the  man  she  had  called  him,  and  less  strong,  less  eager, 
less  brave,  she  would  have  loved  him  less. 

Yet  she  had  lost  him  again,  lost  him  at  the  very  mo- 
ment she  believed  she  had  won  him  back. 

“ Don’t  go,  don’t  go,”  she  whispered  to  him,  as  he 
kissed  her  good-by.  “ Oh,  dearest,  don’t  go ! This  was 
my  evening.” 

“ I must,  I must,  Laura.  Good-by,  old  girl.  Don’t 
keep  me — see,  Sam  is  waiting.” 

He  kissed  her  hastily  twice. 

“ Now,  Sam,”  he  said,  turning  toward  the  broker. 

“ Good  night,  Mrs.  Jadwin.” 

“ Good-by,  old  girl.” 

They  turned  toward  the  door. 

“ You  see,  young  Court  was  down  there  at  the  bank, 
and  he  noticed  that  checks ” 

The  voices  died  away  as  the  hangings  of  the  entrance 
fell  to  place.  The  front  door  clashed  and  closed. 

Laura  sat  upright  in  her  place,  listening,  one  fist 
pressed  against  her  lips. 

There  was  no  more  noise.  The  silence  of  the  vast 
empty  house  widened  around  her  at  the  shutting  of  the 
door  as  the  ripples  widen  on  a pool  with  the  falling  of 
the  stone.  She  crushed  her  knuckles  tighter  and  tighter 
over  her  lips,  she  pressed  her  fingers  to  her  eyes,  she 
slowly  clasped  and  reclasped  her  hands,  listening  for 
what  she  did  not  know.  She  thought  of  her  husband 


A Story  of  Chicago  317 

hurrying  away  from  her,  ignoring  her  and  her  love  for 
him  in  the  haste  and  heat  of  battle.  She  thought  of 
Corthell,  whom  she  had  sent  from  her,  forever,  shutting 
his  love  from  out  her  life. 

Crushed,  broken,  Laura  laid  herself  down  among  the 
cushions,  her  face  buried  in  her  arm.  Above  her  and 
around  her  rose  the  dimly  lit  gallery,  lowering  with 
luminous  shadows.  Only  a point  or  two  of  light  illu- 
minated the  place.  The  gold  frames  of  the  pictures  re- 
flected it  dully;  the  massive  organ  pipes,  just  outlined 
in  faint  blurs  of  light,  towered  far  into  the  gloom  above. 
The  whole  place,  with  its  half-seen  gorgeous  hangings, 
its  darkened  magnificence,  was  like  a huge,  dim  interior 
of  Byzantium. 

Lost,  beneath  the  great  height  of  the  dome,  and  in  the 
wide  reach  of  the  floor  space,  in  her  foolish  finery  of 
bangles,  silks,  high  comb,  and  little  rosetted  slippers, 
Laura  Jadwin  lay  half  hidden  among  the  cushions  of 
the  couch.  If  she  wept,  she  wept  in  silence,  and  the 
muffling  stillness  of  the  lofty  gallery  was  broken  but 
once,  when  a cry,  half  whisper,  half  sob,  rose  to  the  deaf, 
blind  darkness : 

“ Oh,  now  I am  alone,  alone,  alone  1 ” 


IX 


“ Well,  that’s  about  all  then,  I guess,”  said  Gretry  at 
last,  as  he  pushed  back  his  chair  and  rose  from  the 
table. 

He  and  Jadwin  were  in  a room  on  the  third  floor  of 
the  Grand  Pacific  Hotel,  facing  Jackson  Street.  It  was 
three  o’clock  in  the  morning.  Both  men  were  in  their 
shirt-sleeves ; the  table  at  which  they  had  been  sitting 
was  scattered  over  with  papers,  telegraph  blanks,  and 
at  Jadwin’s  elbow  stood  a lacquer  tray  filled  with  the 
stumps  of  cigars  and  burnt  matches,  together  with  one 
of  the  hotel  pitchers  of  ice  water. 

“Yes,”  assented  Jadwin,  absently,  running  through 
a sheaf  of  telegrams,  “ that’s  all  we  can  do — until  we  see 
what  kind  of  a game  Crookes  means  to  play.  I’ll  be  at 
your  office  by  eight.” 

“ Well,”  said  the  broker,  getting  into  his  coat,  “ I 
guess  I’ll  go  to  my  room  and  try  to  get  a little  sleep.  I 
wish  I could  see  how  we’ll  be  to-morrow  night  at  this 
time.” 

Jadwin  made  a sharp  movement  of  impatience. 

“ Damnation,  Sam,  aren’t  you  ever  going  to  let  up 
croaking?  If  you’re  afraid  of  this  thing,  get  out  of  it. 
Haven’t  I got  enough  to  bother  me?” 

“ Oh,  say ! Say,  hold  on,  hold  on,  old  man,”  remon- 
strated the  broker,  in  an  injured  voice.  “ You’re  terrible 
touchy  sometimes,  J.,  of  late.  I was  only  trying  to  look 
ahead  a little.  Don’t  think  I want  to  back  out.  You 
ought  to  know  me  by  this  time,  J.” 

“ There,  there.  I’m  sorry,  Sam,”  Jadwin  hastened  to 
answer,  getting  up  and  shaking  the  other  by  the  shoul- 


I A Story  of  Chicago  319 

Ider.  “ I am  touchy  these  days.  There’s  so  many  things 
to  think  of,  and  all  at  the  same  time.  I do  get  nervous. 
H I never  slept  one  little  wink  last  night — and  you  know 
; the  night  before  I didn’t  turn  in  till  two  in  the  morning.” 

“ Lord,  you  go  swearing  and  damning  ’round  here 
j like  a pirate  sometimes,  J.,”  Gretry  went  on.  “ I haven’t 
; heard  you  cuss  before  in  twenty  years.  Look  out,  now, 

I that  I don’t  tell  on  you  to  your  Sunday-school  superin- 
' tendents.” 

i “ I guess  they’d  cuss,  too,”  observed  Jadwin,  “ if  they 
E were  long  forty  million  wheat,  and  had  to  know  just 
where  every  hatful  of  it  was  every  second  of  the  time. 

, It  was  all  very  well  for  us  to  whoop  about  swinging  a 
! corner  that  afternoon  in  your  office.  But  the  real  thing 
■ — well,  you  don’t  have  any  trouble  keeping  awake.  Do 
you  suppose  we  can  keep  the  fact  of  our  corner  dark 
much  longer?  ” 

“ I fancy  not,”  answered  the  broker,  putting  on  his 
hat  and  thrusting  his  papers  into  his  breast  pocket.  “ If 
we  bust  Crookes,  it’ll  come  out — and  it  won’t  matter 
then.  I think  we’ve  got  all  the  shorts  there  are.” 

“ I’m  laying  particularly  for  Dave  Scannel,”  remarked 
Jadwin.  “ I hope  he’s  in  up  to  his  neck,  and  if  he  is,  by 
the  Great  Horn  Spoon,  I’ll  bankrupt  him,  or  my  name 
is  not  Jadwin ! I’ll  wring  him  bone-dry.  If  I once  get 
a twistjaf  that  rat,  I won’t  leave  him  hide  nor  hair  to 
cover  the  wart  he  calls  his  heart.” 

“ Why,  what  all  has  Scannel  ever  done  to  you  ? ” de- 
manded the  other,  amazed. 

“ Nothing,  but  I found  out  the  other  day  that  old  Har- 
gus — poor  old,  broken-backed,  half-starved  Hargus — I 
found  out  that  it  was  Scannel  that  ruined  him.  Hargus 
and  he  had  a big  deal  on,  you  know — oh,  ages  ago — and 
Scannel  sold  out  on  him.  Great  God,  it  was  the  dirtiest, 
damnedest  treachery  I ever  heard  of ! Scannel  made  his 


320 


The  Pit 


pile,  and  what’s  Hargus  now  ? Why,  he’s  a scarecrow. 
And  he  has  a little  niece  that  he  supports,  heaven  only 
knows  how.  I’ve  seen  her,  and  she’s  pretty  as  a picture. 
Well,  that’s  all  right;  I’m  going  to  carry  fifty  thousand 
wheat  for  Hargus,  and  I’ve  got  another  scheme  for 
him,  too.  By  God,  the  poor  old  boy  won’t  go  hungry 
again  if  I know  it ! But  if  I lay  my  hands  on  Scannel— 
if  we  catch  him  in  the  corner — holy,  suffering  Moses, 
but  I’ll  make  him  squeal!  ” 

Gretry  nodded,  to  say  he  understood  and  approved. 
“ I guess  you’ve  got  him,”  he  remarked.  “ Well,  I 
must  get  to  bed.  Good  night,  J.” 

“ Good  night,  Sam.  See  you  in  the  morning.” 

And  before  the  door  of  the  room  was  closed,  Jadwin 
was  back  at  the  table  again.  Once  more,  painfully,  toil- 
fully,  he  went  over  his  plans,  retesting,  altering,  recom- 
bining, his  hands  full  of  lists,  of  despatches,  and  of  end- 
less columns  of  memoranda.  Occasionally  he  murmured 
fragments  of  sentences  to  himself.  “ H’m  ...  I 


must  look  out  for  that.  . . . They  can’t  touch  us 

there.  . . . The  annex  of  that  Nickel  Plate  eleva- 
tor will  hold — let’s  see  . . . half  a million.  . . . 

If  I buy  the  grain  within  five  days  after  arrival  I’ve  got 
to  pay  storage,  which  is,  let’s  see — three-quarters  of  a 
cent  times  eighty  thousand.  . . .” 

An  hour  passed.  At  length  Jadwin  pushed  back  from 
the  table,  drank  a glass  of  ice  water,  and  rose,  stretching. 

“ Lord,  I must  get  some  sleep,”  he  muttered. 

He  threw  off  his  clothes  and  went  to  bed,  but  even  as 
he  composed  himself  to  sleep,  the  noises  of  the  street 
in  the  awakening  city  invaded  the  room  through  the 
chink  of  the  window  he  had  left  open.  The  noises  were 
vague.  They  blended  easily  into  a far-off  murmur;  they 
came  nearer ; they  developed  into  a cadence : 
\^^^^heat-wheat-wheat,  wheat-wheat-wheat.” 


321 


A Story  of  Chicago 

Jadwin  roused  up.  He  had  just  been  dropping  off  to 
sleep.  He  rose  and  shut  the  window,  and  again  threw 
himself  down.  He  was  weary  to  death;  not  a nerve  of 
his  body  that  did  not  droop  and  flag.  His  eyes  closed 
slowly.  Then,  all  at  once,  his  whole  body  twitched 
sharply  in  a sudden  spasm,  a simultaneous  recoil  of 
every  muscle.  His  heart  began  to  beat  rapidly,  his 
breath  failed  him.  Broad  awake,  he  sat  up  in  bed. 

“ H’m ! ” he  muttered.  “ That  was  a start — must 
have  been  dreaming,  surely.” 

Then  he  paused,  frowning,  his  eyes  narrowing  ; he 
looked  to  and  fro  about  the  room,  lit  by  the  subdued 
glow  that  came  in  through  the  transom  from  a globe  in 
the  hall  outside.  Slowly  his  hand  went  to  his  forehead. 

With  almost  the  abruptness  of  a blow,  that  strange, 
indescribable  sensation  had  returned  to  his  head.  It 
was  as  though  he  were  struggling  with  a fog  in  the  in- 
terior of  his  brain ; or  again  it  was  a numbness,  a weight, 
or  sometimes  it  had  more  of  the  feeling  of  a heavy,  tight- 
drawn  band  across  his  temples. 

“ Smoking  too  much,  I guess,”  murmured  Jadwin. 
But  he  knew  this  was  not  the  reason,  and  as  he  spoke, 
there  smote  across  his  face  the  first  indefinite  sensation 
of  an  unnamed  fear. 

He  gave  a quick,  short  breath,  and  straightened  him- 
self, passing  his  hands  over  his  face. 

“What  the  deuce,”  he  muttered,  “does  this  mean?” 

For  a long  moment  he  remained  sitting  upright  in 
bed,  looking  from  wall  to  wall  of  the  room.  He  felt  a 
little  calmer.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders  impatiently. 

“ Look  here,”  he  said  to  the  opposite  wall,  “ I guess 
I’m  not  a schoolgirl,  to  have  nerves  at  this  late  date. 
High  time  to  get  to  sleep,  if  I’m  to  mix  things  with 
Crookes  to-morrow.” 

But  he  could  not  sleep.  While  the  city  woke  to  its 


322 


The  Pit 


multitudinous  life  below  his  windows,  while  the  grey 
light  of  morning  drowned  the  yellow  haze  from  the  gas 
jet  that  came  through  the  transom,  while  the  “ early 
call  ” alarms  rang  in  neighbouring  rooms,  Curtis  Jadwin 
lay  awake,  staring  at  the  ceiling,  now  concentrating  his 
thoughts  upon  the  vast  operation  in  which  he  found 
himself  engaged,  following  out  again  all  its  complexi- 
ties, its  inconceivable  ramifications,  or  now  puzzling 
over  the  inexplicable  numbness,  the  queer,  dull  weight 
that  descended  upon  his  brain  so  soon  as  he  allowed  its 
activity  to  relax. 

By  five  o’clock  he  found  it  intolerable  to  remain 
longer  in  bed;  he  rose,  bathed,  dressed,  ordered  his 
breakfast,  and,  descending  to  the  office  of  the  hotel,  read 
the  earliest  editions  of  the  morning  papers  for  half  an 
hour. 

Then,  at  last,  as  he  sat  in  the  corner  of  the  office  deep 
in  an  armchair,  the  tired  shoulders  began  to  droop,  the 
wearied  head  to  nod.  The  paper  slipped  from  his  fin- 
gers, his  chin  sank  upon  his  collar. 

To  his  ears  the  early  clamour  of  the  street,  the  cries 
of  newsboys,  the  rattle  of  drays  came  in  a dull  murmur. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  very  far  off  a great  throng  was 
forming.  It  was  menacing,  shouting.  It  stirred,  it 
moved,  it  was  advancing.  It  came  galloping  down  the 
street,  shouting  with  insensate  fury;  now  it  was  at  the 
corner,  now  it  burst  into  the  entrance  of  the  hotel.  Its 
clamour  was  deafening,  but  intelligible.  For  a thou- 
sand, a million,  forty  million  voices  were  shouting  in 
cadence : 

“ Wheat-wheat-wheat,  wheat-wheat-wheat.” 

Jadwin  woke  abruptly,  half  starting  from  his  chair. 
The  morning  sun  was  coming  in  through  the  windows, 
the  clock  above  the  hotel  desk  was  striking  seven,  and 
a waiter  stood  at  his  elbow,  saying: 


A Story  of  Chicago  323 

“ Your  breakfast  is  served,  Mr.  Jadwin.” 

He  had  no  appetite.  He  could  eat  nothing  but  a 
few  mouthfuls  of  toast,  and  long  before  the  appointed 
i hour  he  sat  in  Gretry’s  office,  waiting  for  the  broker  to 
' appear,  drumming  on  the  arm  of  his  chair,  plucking  at 
i the  buttons  of  his  coat,  and  wondering  why  it  was  that 
i every  now  and  then  all  the  objects  in  his  range  of  vision 
I seemed  to  move  slowly  back  and  stand  upon  the  same 
plane. 

By  degrees  he  lapsed  into  a sort  of  lethargy,  a 
wretched  counterfeit  of  sleep,  his  eyes  half  closed,  his 
breath  irregular.  But,  such  as  it  was,  it  was  infinitely 
grateful.  The  little,  over-driven  cogs  and  wheels  of  the 
mind,  at  least,  moved  more  slowly.  Perhaps  by  and  by 
this  might  actually  develop  into  genuine,  blessed 
oblivion. 

But  there  was  a quick  step  outside  the  door.  Gretry 
came  in. 

“Oh,  J. ! Here  already,  are  you?  Well,  Crookes 
will  begin  to  sell  at  the  very  tap  of  the  bell.” 

“ He  will,  hey?  ” Jadwin  was  on  his  feet.  Instantly 
the  jaded  nerves  braced  taut  again ; instantly  the  tiny 
machinery  of  the  brain  spun  again  at  its  fullest  limit. 
“He’s  going  to  try  to  sell  us  out,  is  he?  All  right. 
We’ll  sell,  too.  We’ll  see  who  can  sell  the  most — 
Crookes  or  Jadwin.” 

“ Sell!  You  mean  buy,  of  course.” 

“ No,  I don’t.  I’ve  been  thinking  it  over  since  you 
left  last  night.  Wheat  is  worth  exactly  what  it  is  sell- 
ing for  this  blessed  day.  I’ve  not  inflated  it  up  one 
single  eighth  yet;  Crookes  thinks  I have.  Good  Lord, 
I can  read  him  like  a book ! He  thinks  I’ve  boosted  the 
stuff  above  what  it’s  worth,  and  that  a little  shove  will 
send  it  down.  He  can  send  it  down  to  ten  cents  if  he 
likes,  but  it’ll  jump  back  like  a rubber  ball.  I’ll  sell 


324 


The  Pit 


bushel  for  bushel  with  him  as  long  as  he  wants  to  keep 
it  up.” 

“ Heavens  and  earth,  J.,”  exclaimed  Gretry,  with  a 
long  breath,  “ the  risk  is  about  as  big  as  holding  up  the 
Bank  of  England.  You  are  depreciating  the  value  of 
about  forty  million  dollars’  worth  of  your  property  with 
every  cent  she  breaks.” 

“ You  do  as  I tell  you — you’ll  see  I’m  right,”  answered 
Jadwin.  “ Get  your  boys  in  here,  and  we’ll  give  ’em  the 
day’s  orders.” 

The  “ Crookes  affair  ” — as  among  themselves  the 
group  of  men  who  centred  about  Jadwinspoke  of  it — was 
one  of  the  sharpest  fights  known  on  the  Board  of  Trade 
for  many  a long  day  It  developed  with  amazing  unex- 
pectedness and  was  watched  with  breathless  interest 
from  every  produce  exchange  between  the  oceans. 

It  occupied  every  moment  of  each  morning's  session 
of  the  Board  of  Trade  for  four  furious,  never-to-be- 
forgotten  days.  Promptly  at  half-past  nine  o’clock  on 
Tuesday  morning  Crookes  began  to  sell  May  wheat 
short,  and  instantly,  to  the  surprise  of  every  Pit  trader 
on  the  floor,  the  price  broke  with  his  very  first  attack. 
In  twenty  minutes  it  was  down  half  a cent.  Then  came 
the  really  big  surprise  of  the  day.  Landry  Court,  the 
known  representative  of  the  firm  which  all  along  had 
fostered  and  encouraged  the  rise  in  the  price,  appeared 
in  the  Pit,  and  instead  of  buying,  upset  all  precedent  and 
all  calculation  by  selling  as  freely  as  the  Crookes  men 
themselves  For  three  days  the  battle  went  on.  But 
to  the  outside  world — even  to  the  Pit  itself — it  seemed 
less  a battle  than  a rout.  The  “ Unknown  Bull  ” was 
down,  was  beaten  at  last.  He  had  inflated  the  price  of  the 
wheat,  he  had  backed  a false,  an  artificial,  and  unw'ar- 
rantable  boom,  and  now  he  was  being  broken.  Ah, 
Crookes  knew  when  to  strike.  Here  was  the  great  gen- 
eral— the  real  leader  who  so  long  had  held  back. 


A Story  of  Chicago  3^5 

By  the  end  of  the  Friday  session,  Crookes  and  his 
clique  had  sold  five  million  bushels,  “ going  short,” 
promising  to  deliver  wheat  that  they  did  not  own,  but 
expected  to  buy  at  low  prices.  The  market  that  day 
closed  at  ninety-five. 

Friday  night,  in  Jadwin’s  room  in  the  Grand  Pacific, 
a conference  was  held  between  Gretry,  Landry  Court, 
two  of  Gretry’s  most  trusted  lieutenants,  and  Jadwin 
himself.  Two  results  issued  from  this  conference.  One 
took  the  form  of  a cipher  cable  to  Jadwin’s  Liverpool 
agent,  which,  translated,  read : “ Buy  all  wheat  that  is 
offered  till  market  advances  ,one  penny.”  The  other 
was  the  general  order  issued  to  Landry  Court  and  the 
four  other  Pit  traders  for  the  Gretry-Converse  house,  to 
the  effect  that  in  the  morning  they  were  to  go  into  the 
Pit  and,  making  no  demonstration,  begin  to  buy  back 
the  wheat  they  had  been  selling  all  the  week.  Each  of 
them  was  to  buy  one  million  bushels.  ■ Jadwin  had,  as 
Gretry  put  it,  “ timed  Crookes  to  a split  second,”  fore- 
seeing the  exact  moment  when  he  would  make  his  su- 
preme effort.  Sure  enough,  on  that  very  Saturday 
Crookes  was  selling  more  freely  than  ever,  confident  of 
breaking  the  Bull  ere  the  closing  gong  should  ring. 

But  before  the  end  of  the  morning  wheat  was  up  two 
cents.  Buying  orders  had  poured  in  upon  the  market. 
The  price  had  stiffened  almost  of  itself.  Above  the  in- 
dicator upon  the  great  dial  there  seemed  to  be  an  in- 
visible, inexplicable  magnet  that  lifted  it  higher  and 
higher,  for  all  the  strenuous  efforts  of  the  Bears  to  drag 
it  down. 

A feeling  of  nervousness  began  to  prevail.  The 
small  traders,  who  had  been  wild  to  sell  short  during 
the  first  days  of  the  movement,  began  on  Monday  to 
cover  a little  here  and  there. 

“ Now,”  declared  Jadwin  that  night,  " now’s  the  time 


326 


The  Pit 


to  open  up  all  along  the  line  hard.  If  we  start  her  with 
a rush  to-morrow  morning,  she’ll  go  to  a dollar  all  by 
herself.” 

Tuesday  morning,  therefore,  the  Gretry-Converse 
traders  bought  another  five  million  bushels.  The  price 
under  this  stimulus  went  up  with  the  buoyancy  of  a 
feather.  The  little  shorts,  more  and  more  uneasy,  and 
beginning  to  cover  by  the  scores,  forced  it  up  even 
higher. 

The  nervousness  of  the  “ crowd  ” increased.  Per- 
haps, after  all,  Crookes  was  not  so  omnipotent.  Per- 
haps, after  all,  the  Unknown  Bull  had  another  fight  in 
him.  Then  the  “ outsiders  ” came  into  the  market. 
All  in  a moment  all  the  traders  were  talking  “ higher 
prices.”  Everybody  now  was  as  eager  to  buy  as,  a 
week  before,  they  had  been  eager  to  sell.  The  price 
went  up  by  convulsive  bounds.  Crookes  dared  not 
buy,  dared  not  purchase  the  wheat  to  make  good  his 
promises  of  delivery,  for  fear  of  putting  up  the  price 
on  himself  higher  still.  Dismayed,  chagrined,  and 
humiliated,  he  and  his  clique  sat  back  inert,  watching 
the  tremendous  reaction,  hoping  against  hope  that  the 
market  would  break  again. 

But  now  it  became  difficult  to  get  wheat  at  all.  All 
of  a sudden  nobody  was  selling.  The  buyers  in  the 
Pit  commenced  to  bid  against  each  other,  offering  a 
dollar  and  two  cents.  The  wheat  did  not  “ come  out.” 
They  bid  a dollar  two  and  a half,  a dollar  two  and  five- 
eighths;  still  no  wheat.  Frantic,  they  shook  their  fin- 
gers in  the  very  faces  of  Landry  Court  and  the  Gretry 
traders,  shouting:  “A  dollar,  two  and  seven-eighths! 
A dollar,  three!  Three  and  an  eighth!  A quarter! 
Three-eighths!  A half!”  But  the  others  shook  their 
heads.  Except  on  extraordinary  advances  of  a w^hole 
cent  at  a time,  there  was  no  wheat  for  sale. 


A Story  of  Chicago 


327 


At  the  last-named  price  Crookes  acknowledged  de-  ^ 
feat.  Somewhere  in  his  big  machine  a screw  had  been 
loose.  Somehow  he  had  miscalculated.  So  long  as  he 
and  his  associates  sold  and  sold  and  sold,  the  price 
would  go  down.  The  instant  they  tried  to  cover  there 
was  no  wheat  for  sale,  and  the  price  leaped  up  again 
with  an  elasticity  that  no  power  could  control. 

He  saw  now  that  he  and  his  followers  had  to  face 
a loss  of  several  cents  a bushel  on  each  one  of  the  five 
million  they  had  sold.  They  had  not  been  able  to  cover 
one  single  sale,  and  the  situation  was  back  again  exactly 
as  before  his  onslaught,  the  Unknown  Bull  in  securer 
control  than  ever  before. 

But  Crookes  had,  at  last,  begun  to  suspect  the  true 
condition  of  affairs,  and  now  that  the  market  was  hourly 
growing  tighter  and  more  congested,  his  suspicion  was 
confirmed.  Alone,  locked  in  his  private  office,  he 
thought  it  out,  and  at  last  remarked  to  himself : 

“ Somebody  has  a great  big  line  of  wheat  that  is  not 
on  the  market  at  alt.  Somebody  has  got  all  the  wheat 
there  is.  I guess  I know  his  name.  I guess  the  visible 
supply  of  May  wheat  in  the  Chicago  market  is  cor- 
nered.” 

This  was  at  a time  when  the  price  stood  at  a dollar 
and  one  cent.  Crookes — who  from  the  first  had  man- 
aged and  handled  the  operations  of  his  confederates — 
knew  very,  well  that  if  he  now  bought  in  all  the  wheat 
his  clique  had  sold  short,  the  price  would  go  up  long 
before  he  could  complete  the  deal,  [^e  said  nothing 
to  the  others,  further  than  that  they  should  “ hold  on  a 
little  longer,  in  the  hopes  of  a turn,”  but  very  quietly  he 
began  to  cover  his  own  personal  sales — his  share  of  the 
five  million  sold  by  his  clique.  Foreseeing  the  collapse 
of  his  scheme,  he  got  out  of  the  market;  at  a loss,  it 
was  true,  but  still  no  more  than  he  could  stand.  If  he 


328 


The  Pk 


“ held  on  a little  longer,  in  the  hopes  of  a turn,”  there 
was  no  telling  how  deep  the  Bull  would  gore  him.  This 
was  no  time  to  think  much  about  “ obligations.”  It 
had  got  to  be  “ every  man  for  himself  ” by  no\^ 

A few  days  after  this  Crookes  sat  in  his  office  in  the 
building  in  La  Salle  Street  that  bore  his  name.  It  was 
about  eleven  o’clock  in  the  morning.  His  dry,  small, 
beardless  face  creased  a little  at  the  corners  of  the 
mouth  as  he  heard  the  ticker  chattering  behind  him. 
He  knew  how  the  tape  read.  There  had  been  another 
flurry  on  the  Board  that  morning,  not  half  an  hour 
since,  and  wheat  was  up  again.  In  the  last  thirty-six 
hours  it  had  advanced  three  cents,  and  he  knew  very 
well  that  at  that  very  minute  the  “ boys  ” on  the  floor 
were  offering  nine  cents  over  the  dollar  for  the  May 
option — and  not  getting  it.  The  market  was  in  a tu- 
mult. He  fancied  he  could  almost  hear  the  thunder  of 
the  Pit  as  it  swirled.  All  La  Salle  Street  was  listening 
and  watching,  all  Chicago,  all  the  nation,  all  the  world. 
Not  a “ factor  ” on  the  London  ’Change  who  did  not 
turn  an  ear  down  the  wind  to  catch  the  echo  of  this 
turmoil,  not  an  agent  de  change  In  the  peristyle  of  the 
Paris  Bourse,  who  did  not  strain  to  note  the  every 
modulation  of  its  mighty  diapason. 

“ Well,”  said  the  little  voice  of  the  man-within-the- 
man,  who  in  the  person  of  Calvin  Hardy  Crookes  sat 
listening  to  the  ticker  in  his  office,  “ well,  let  it  roar. 
It  sure  can’t  hurt  C.  H.  C.” 

“ Can  you  see  Mr.  Cressler?  ” said  the  clerk  at  the 
door. 

He  came  in  with  a hurried,  unsteady  step.  The  long, 
stooping  figure  was  unkempt;  was,  in  a sense,  un- 
jointed, as  though  some  support  had  been  withdrawn. 
The  eyes  were  deep-sunk,  the  bones  of  the  face  were 
gaunt  and  bare;  and  from  moment  to  moment  the  man 
swallowed  quickly  and  moistened  his  lips. 


A Story  of  Chicago  329 

Crookes  nodded  as  his  ally  came  up,  and  one  finger 
raised,  pointed  to  a chair.  He  himself  was  impassive, 
calm.  He  did  not  move.  Taciturn  as  ever,  he  waited 
for  the  other  to  speak. 

“ I want  to  talk  with  you,  Mr.  Crookes,”  began 
Cressler,  hurriedly.  “ I — I made  up  my  mind  to  it  day 
before  yesterday,  but  I put  it  off.  I had  hoped  that 
things  would  come  our  way.  But  I can’t  delay  now. 
. . . Mr.  Crookes,  I can’t  stand  this  any  longer.  I 
must  get  out  of  the  clique.  I haven’t  the  ready  money 
to  stand  this  pace.” 

There  was  a silence.  Crookes  neither  moved  nor 
changed  expression.  His  small  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
other,  he  waited  for  Cressler  to  go  on. 

“ I might  remind  you,”  Cressler  continued,  “ that 
when  I joined  your  party  I expressly  stipulated  that 
our  operations  should  not  be  speculative.” 

“ You  knew — ” began  Crookes. 

“ Oh,  I have  nothing  to  say,”  Cressler  interrupted. 
" I did  know.  I knew  from  the  first  it  was  to  be  specu- 
lation. I tried  to  deceive  myself.  I — well,  this  don’t 
interest  you.  The  point  is  I must  get  out  of  the  market. 
I don’t  like  to  go  back  on  you  others  ” — Cressler’s  fin- 
gers were  fiddling  with  his  watch  chain — “ I don’t  like 
to — I mean  to  say  you  must  let  me  out.  You  must  let 
me  cover — at  once.  I am — very  nearly  bankrupt  now. 
Another  half-cent  rise,  and  I’m  done  for.  It  will  take 
as  it  is — my — my — all  my  ready  money — all  my  savings 
for  the  last  ten  years  to  buy  in  my  wheat.” 

“Let’s  see.  How  much  did  I sell  for  you?”  de- 
manded Crookes.  “ Five  hundred  thousand?  ” 

“Yes,  five  hundred  thousand  at  ninety-eight — and 
we’re  at  a dollar  nine  now.  It’s  an  eleven-cent  jump. 
I — I can’t  stand  another  eighth.  I must  cover  at  once.” 

Crookes,  without  answering,  drew  his  desk  telephone 

to  him. 


330 


The  Pit 


“Hello!”  he  said  after  a moment.  “Hello!  . . . 
Buy  five  hundred  May,  at  the  market,  right  away.” 

He  hung  up  the  receiver  and  leaned  back  in  his  chair. 

“ They’ll  report  the  trade  in  a minute,”  he  said. 
“ Better  wait  and  see.” 

Cressler  stood  at  the  window,  his  hands  clasped  be- 
hind his  back,  looking  down  into  the  street.  He  did 
not  answer.  The  seconds  passed,  then  the  minutes. 
Crookes  turned  to  his  desk  and  signed  a few  letters, 
the  scrape  of  his  pen  the  only  noise  to  break  the  silence 
of  the  room.  Then  at  last  he  observed : 

“ Pretty  bum  weather  for  this  time  of  the  year.” 

Cressler  nodded.  He  took  off  his  hat,  and  pushed 
the  hair  back  from  his  forehead  with  a slow,  persis- 
tent gesture;  then  as  the  ticker  began  to  click  again, 
he  faced  around  quickly,  and  crossing  the  room,  ran  the 
tape  through  his  fingers. 

“ God,”  he  muttered,  between  his  teeth,  “ I hope  your 
men  didn’t  lose  any  time.  It’s  up  again.” 

There  Avas  a step  at  the  door,  and  as  Crookes  called 
to  come  in,  the  office  messenger  entered  and  put  a slip 
of  paper  into  his  hands.  Crookes  looked  at  it,  and 
pushed  it  across  his  desk  towards  Cressler. 

“ There  you  are,”  he  observed.  “ That’s  your  trade. 
Five  hundred  May,  at  a dollar  ten.  You  were  lucky  to 
get  it  at  that — or  at  any  price.” 

“ T.en  l ’-’  cried  the  other,  as  he  took  the  paper. 

Crookes  turned  away  again,  and  glanced  indifferently 
over  his  letters.  Cressler  laid  the  slip  carefully  down 
upon  the  ledge  of  the  desk,  and  though  Crookes  did 
not  look  up,  he  could  almost  feel  how  the  man  braced 
himself,  got  a grip  of  himself,  put  all  his  resources  to 
the  stretch  to  meet  this  blow  squarely  in  the  front. 

“ And  I said  another  eighth  would  bust  me,”  Cressler 
remarked,  with  a short  laugh.  “ Well,”  he  added, 


A Story  of  Chicago 


331 


' grimly,  “ it  looks  as  though  I were  busted.  I suppose, 
j though,  we  must  all  expect  to  get  the  knife  once  in  a 
'■j  while — mustn’t  we?  Well,  there  goes  fifty  thousand 
dollars  of  my  good  money.” 

i “I  can  tell  you  who’s  got  it,  if  you  care  to  know,” 
[answered  Crookes.  “ It’s  a pewter  quarter  to  Govern- 
fment  bonds  that  Gretry,  Converse  & Co.  sold  that 
wheat  to  you.  They’ve  got  about  all  the  wheat  there 
!is.” 

! “ I know,  of  course,  they’ve  been  heavy  buyers — for 
this  Unknown  Bull  they  talk  so  much  about.” 

‘ “ Well,  he  ain’t  Unknown  to  me,”  declared  Crookes. 

, “ I know  him.  It’s  Curtis  Jadwin.  He’s  the  man  we’ve 
\ been  fighting  all  along,  and  all  hell’s  going  to  break 
tloose  down  here  in  three  or  four  days.  He’s  cornered 
pthe  market.” 

Jj  “Jadwin!  You  mean  J. — Curtis — my  friend?” 
t Crookes  grunted  an  affirmative. 

1,  “ But — why,  he  told  me  he  was  out  of  the  market — 

[’  for  good.” 

I Crookes  did  not  seem  to  consider  that  the  remark 
pcalled  for  any  useless  words.  He  put  his  hands  in  his 
pockets  and  looked  at  Cressler. 

“ Does  he  know?  ” faltered  Cressler.  “ Do  you  sup- 
'pose  he  could  have  heard  that  I was  in  this  clique  of 
yours  ? ” 

j “ Not  unless  you  told  him  yourself.” 

, Cressler  stood  up,  clearing  his  throat. 

“ I have  not  told  him,  Mr.  Crookes,”  he  said.  “ You 
would  do  me  an  especial  favor  if  you  would  keep  it 
from  the  public,  from  everybody,  from  Mr.  Jadwin. 
that  I was  a member  of  this  ring.” 

Crookes  swung  his  chair  around  and  faced  his  desk. 

“ Hell!  You  don’t  suppose  I’m  going  to  talk,  do 
you?  ” 


The  Pit 


332 

“ Well.  . . , Gc^d-morning,  Mr.  Crookes.” 

“ Good-morning.” y' 

Left  alone,  Croefkes  took  a turn  the  length  of  the 
room.  Then  he  paused  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  look- 
ing down  thoughtfully  at  his  trim,  small  feet. 

“ Jadwin!  ” he  muttered.  “Hm!  . . . Think  you’re 
boss  of  the  boat  now,  don’t  you?  Think  I’m  done 
with  you,  hey?  Oh,  yes,  you’ll  run  a corner  in  wheat, 
will  you?  Well,  here’s  a point  for  your  consideration, 
Mr.  Curtis  Jadwin,  ‘ Don’t  get  so  big  that  all  the  other 
fellows  can  see  you — they  throw  bricks.’  ” 

He  sat  down  in  his  chair,  and  passed  a thin  and  deli- 
cate hand  across  his  lean  mouth. 
f No,”  he  muttered,  “ I won’t  try  to  kill  j'ou  any  more. 
You’ve  cornered  wheat,  have  you?  All  right.  . . . 

Your  own  wheat,  my  smart  Aleck,  will  do  all  the  kill- 
ing I want.” 

Then  at  last  the  news  of  the  great  corner,  authori- 
tative, definite,  went  out  over  all  the  country,  and 
promptly  the  figure  and  name  of  Curtis  Jadwin  loomed 
suddenly  huge  and  formidable  in  the  eye  of  the  public. 
There  was  no  wheat  on  the  Chicago  market.  He,  the 
great  man,  the  “ Napoleon  of  La  Salle  Street,”  had  it 
all.  He  sold  it  or  hoarded  it,  as  suited  his  pleasure. 
He  dictated  the  price  to  those  men  who  must  buy  it 
of  him  to  fill  their  contracts.  His  hand  ^ras  upon  the 
indicator  of  the  wheat  dial  of  the  Board  of  Trade,  and 
he  moved  it  through  as  many  or  as  few  of  the  degrees 
of  the  circle  as  he  chose.  I 

The  newspapers,  not  only  of  Chicago,  but  of  every  I 
city  in  the  Union,  exploited  him  for  “ stories.”  The  > 
history  of  his  corner,  how  he  had  eflfected  it,  its  chronol-  i 
ogy,  its  results,  were  told  and  retold,  till  his  name  was 
familiar  In  the  homes  and  at  the  firesides  of  uncounted  , 
thousands.  " Anecdotes  ” were  circulated  concerning  | 


ij 

I A Story  of  Chicago  333 

him,  interviews — concocted  for  the  most  part  in  the 
[editorial  rooms — were  printed.  His  picture  appeared. 
[He  was  described  as  a cool,  calm  man  of  steel,  with  a 
cold  and  calculating  grey  eye,  “ piercing  as  an  eagle’s 
^as  a desperate  gambler,  bold  as  a buccaneer,  his  eye 
[black  and  fiery — a veritable  pirate;  as  a mild,  small  man 
(With  a weak  chin  and  a deprecatory  demeanour;  as  a 
jolly  and  roistering  “ high  roller,”  addicted  to  actresses, 
[suppers,  and  to  bathing  in  champagne. 

In  the  Democratic  press  he  was  assailed  as  little  bet- 
jter  than  a thief,  vituperated  as  an  oppressor  of  the 
(people,  who  ground  the  faces  of  the  poor,  and  battened 
in  the  luxury  wrung  from  the  toiling  millions.  The 
Republican  papers  spoke  solemnly  of  the  new  era  of 
prosperity  upon  which  the  country  was  entering,  re- 
ferred to  the  stimulating  effect  of  the  higher  prices 
upon  capitalised  industry,  and  distorted  the  situation 
[to  an  augury  of  a sweeping  Republican  victory  in  the 
next  Presidential  campaign^ 

Day  in  and  day  out  Gretry’s  office,  where  Jadwin 
now  fixed  his  headquarters,  was  besieged.  Reporters 
waited  in  the  anteroom  for  whole  half  days  to  get  but 
a nod  and  a word  from  the  great  man.  Promoters, 
inventors,  small  financiers,  agents,  manufacturers,  even 
“ crayon  artists  ” and  horse  dealers,  even  tailors  and 
yacht  builders  rubbed  shoulders  with  one  another  out- 
side the  door  marked  “ Private.” 

Farmers  from  Iowa  or  Kansas  come  to  town  to  sell 
their  little  quotas  of  wheat  at  the  prices  they  once  had 
deemed  impossible,  shook  his  hand  on  the  street,  and 
: urged  him  to  come  out  and  see  “ God’s  own  country.” 
t But  once,  however,  an  entire  deputation  of  these 
wheat  growers  found  their  way  into  the  sanctum.  They 
came  bearing  a presentation  cup  of  silver,  and  their 
spokesman,  stammering  and  horribly  embarrassed  in 


334 


The  Pit 


unwonted  broadcloth  and  varnished  boots,  delivered  a 
short  address.  He  explained  that  all  through  the 
Middle  West,  all  through  the  wheat  belts,  a great  wave 
of  prosperity  was  rolling  because  of  Jadwin’s  corner. 
Mortgages  were  being  paid  off,  new  and  improved  farm- 
ing implements  were  being  bought,  new  areas  seeded, 
new  live  stock  acquired.  The  men  were  buying  buggies 
again,  the  women  parlor  melodeons,  houses  and  homes 
were  going  up;  in  short,  the  entire  farming  population 
of  the  Middle  West  was  being  daily  enriched.  In  a 
letter  that  Jadwin  received  about  this  time  from  an  old 
fellow  living  in  “ Bates  Corners,”  Kansas,  occurred  the 
words: 

“ — and,  sir,  you  must  know  that  not  a night  passes  j 
that  my  little  girl,  now  going  on  seven,  sir,  and  the 
brightest  of  her  class  in  the  county  seat  grammar  i 
school,  does  not  pray  to  have  God  bless  Mister  Jadwin,  i 
\yho  helped  papa  save  the  farm.’y'  ^ 

^ If  there  was  another  side,  if  the  brilliancy  of  his  tri-  ^ 
umph  yet  threw  a shadow  behind  it,  Jadwin  could  ignore 
it.  It  was  far  from  him,  he  could  not  see  it.  Yet  for 
all  this  a story  came  to  him  about  this  time  that  for 
long  would  not  be  quite  forgotten.  It  came  through 
Corthell,  but  very  indirectly,  passed  on  by  a dozen 
mouths  before  it  reached  his  ears. 

It  told  of  an  American,  an  art  student,  who  at  the 
moment  was  on  a tramping  tour  through  the  north  of 
Italy.  It  was  an  ugly  story.  Jadwin  pished  and  ' 
pshawed,  refusing  to  believe  it,  condemning  it  as  ridic-  | 
ulous  exaggeration,  but  somehow  it  appealed  to  an  i 
uncompromising  sense  of  the  probable;  it  rang  true.  ^ 

“ And  I met  this  boy,”  the  student  had  said,  “ on  the 
high  road,  about  a kilometre  outside  of  Arezzo.  He 
was  a fine  fellow  of  twenty  or  twenty-two.  He  knew 
nothing  of  the  world.  England  he  supposed  to  be 


335 


A Story  of  Chicago 

part  of  the  mainland  of  Europe.  For  him  Cavour  and 
and  Mazzini  were  still  alive.  But  when  I announced 
myself  American,  he  roused  at  once. 

“ ‘ Ah,  American,’  he  said.  ‘ We  know  of  your  com- 
patriot, then,  here  in  Italy — ^this  Jadwin  of  Chicago, 
who  has  bought  all  the  wheat.  We  have  no  more 
bread.  The  loaf  is  small  as  the  fist,  and  costly.  We 
cannot  buy  it,  we  have  no  money.  For  myself,  I do  not 
care.  I am  young.  I can  eat  lentils  and  cress.  But  ’ 
and  here  his  voice  was  a whisper — ‘ but  my  mother — 
my  mother!^ 

“It’s  a lie!”  Jadwin  cried.  “Of  course  it’s  a lie. 
Good  God,  if  I were  to  believe  every  damned  story 
the  papers  print  about  me  these  days  I’d  go  insane.” 

Yet  when  he  put  up  the  price  of' wheat  to  a dollar  and 
twenty  cents,  the  great  flour  mills  of  Minnesota  and 
Wisconsin  stopped  grinding,  and  finding  a greater 
profit  in  selling  the  grain  than  in  milling  it,  threw  their 
stores  upon  the  market.  Though  the  bakers  did  not  in- 
crease the  price  of  their  bread  as  a consequence  of  this, 
the  loaf — even  in  Chicago,  even  in  the  centre  of  that 
great  Middle  West  that  weltered  in  the  luxury  of  pro- 
duction— was  smaller,  and  from  all  the  poorer  districts 
of  the  city  came  complaints,  protests,  and  vague 
grumblings  of  discontent 

On  a certain  Monday,  about  the  middle  of  May,  Jad- 
win sat  at  Gretry’s  desk  (long  since  given  over  to  his 
use),  in  the  office  on  the  ground  floor  of  the  Board  of 
Trade,  swinging  nervously  back  and  forth  in  the  swivel 
chair,  drumming  his  fingers  upon  the  arms,  and  glanc- 
ing continually  at  the  clock  that  hung  against  the  op- 
posite wall.  It  was  about  eleven  in  the  morning.  The 
Board  of  Trade  vibrated  with  the  vast  trepidation  of  the 
Pit,  that  for  two  hours  had  spun  and  sucked,  and  gut- 
tered and  disgorged  just  overhead.  The  waiting-room 


33^ 


The  Pit 


of  the  office  was  more  than  usually  crowded.  Parasites 
of  every  description  polished  the  walls  with  shoulder 
and  elbow.  Millionaires  and  beggars  jostled  one  an- 
other about  the  doorway.  The  vice-president  of  a bank 
watched  the  door  of  the  private  office  covertly;  the 
traffic  manager  of  a railroad  exchanged  yarns  with  a 
group  of  reporters  while  awaiting  his  turn. 

As  Gretry,  the  great  man’s  lieutenant,  hurried 
through  the  anteroom,  conversation  suddenly  ceased, 
and  half  a dozen  of  the  more  impatient  sprang  for- 
ward. But  the  broker  pushed  his  way  through  the 
crowd,  shaking  his  head,  excusing  himself  as  best  he 
might,  and  entering  the  office,  closed  the  door  behind 
him. 

At  the  clash  of  the  lock  Jadwin  started  half-way  from 
his  chair,  then  recognising  the  broker,  sank  back  with 
a quick  breath. 

“ Why  don’t  you  knock,  or  something,  Sam?”  he  ex- 
claimed. “ Might  as  well  kill  a man  as  scare  him  to 
death.  Well,  how  goes  it?  ” 

“ All  right.  I’ve  fixed  the  warehouse  crowd — and 
we  just  about  ‘ own  ’ the  editorial  and  news  sheets  of 
these  papers.”  He  threw  a memorandum  down  upon 
the  desk.  “ I’m  off  again  now.  Got  an  appointment 
with  the  Northwestern  crowd  in  ten  minutes.  Has 
Hargus  or  Scannel  shown  up  yet?  ” 

“ Hargus  is  always  out  in  your  customers’  room,” 
answered  Jadwin.  “ I can  get  him  whenever  I want 
him.  But  Scannel  has  not  shown  up  yet.  I thought 
when  we  put  up  the  price  again  Friday  we’d  bring  him 
in.  I thought  you’d  figured  out  that  he  couldn’t  stand  i 
that  rise.” 

“ He  can’t  stand  it,”  answered  Gretry.  “ He’ll  be  in 
to  see  you  to-morrow  or  next  day.” 

“ To-morrow  or  next  day  won’t  do,”  answered  Jad- 


A Story  of  Chicago 


337 


j win.  “ I want  to  put  the  knife  into  him  to-day.  You 
go  up  there  on  the  floor  and  put  the  price  up  another 
cent.  That  will  bring  him,  or  I’ll  miss  my  guess.” 
j Gretry  nodded.  “ All  right,”  he  said,  “ it’s  your  game, 
j Shall  I see  you  at  lunch?  ” 

' “Lunch!  I can’t  eat.  But  I’ll  drop  around  and 
I hear  what  the  Northwestern  people  had  to  say  to  you.” 

A few  moments  after  Gretry  had  gone  Jadwin  heard 
the  ticker  on  the  other  side  of  the  room  begin  to  chat- 
ter furiously;  and  at  the  same  time  he  could  fancy  that 
the  distant  thunder  of  the  Pit  grew  suddenly  more  vio- 
lent, taking  on  a sharper,  shriller  note.  He  looked  at 
I the  tape.  The  one-cent  rise  had  been  effected. 

“You  will  hold  out,  will  you,  you  brute?”  muttered 
' Jadwin.  “ See  how  you  like  that  now.”  He  took  out 
his  watch.  “ You’ll  be  running  in  to  me  in  just  about 
ten  minutes’  time.” 

He  turned  about,  and  calling  a clerk,  gave  orders  to 
have  Hargus  found  and  brought  to  him. 

When  the  old  fellow  appeared  Jadwin  jumped  up  and 
gave  him  his  hand  as  he  came  slowly  forward. 

His  rusty  top  hat  was  in  his  hand;  from  the  breast 
pocket  of  his  faded  and  dirty  frock  coat  a bundle  of 
of  ancient  newspapers  protruded.  His  shoestring  tie 
straggled  over  his  frayed  shirt  front,  while  at  his  wrist 
one  of  his  crumpled  cuffs,  detached  from  the  sleeve, 
showed  the  bare,  thin  wrist  between  cloth  and  linen, 
and  encumbered  the  fingers  in  which  he  held  the  unlit 
stump  of  a fetid  cigar. 

Evidently  bewildered  as  to  the  cause  of  this  sum- 
mons, he  looked  up  perplexed  at  Jadwin  as  he  came  up, 
out  of  his  dim,  red-lidded  eyes. 

“ Sit  down,  Hargus.  Glad  to  see  you,”  called  Jadwin. 

“ Hey?  ” 

The  voice  was  faint  and  a little  querulous. 


33 


The  Pit 


338 


“ I say,  sit  down.  Have  a chair.  I want  to  have  a 
talk  with  you.  You  ran  a corner  in  wheat  once  your- 
self.” 

“Oh.  . , . Wheat.”  I 

“ Yes,  your  corner.  You  remember?  ” 

“ Yes.  Oh,  that  was  long  ago.  In  seventy-eight  it 
was — the  September  option.  ✓ And  the  Board  made 
wheat  in  the  cars  ‘ regular.’ 

His  voice  trailed  off  into  silence,  and  he  looked 
vaguely  about  on  the  floor  of  the  room,  sucking  in  his 
cheeks,  and  passing  the  edge  of  one  large,  osseous  hand 
across  his  lips. 

“Well,  you  lost  all  your  money  that  time,  I believe. 
Scannel,  your  partner,  sold  out  oh  you.”  I 

“ Hey?  It  was  in  seventy-eight.  . . . The  sec-  ‘ 

retary  of  the  Board  announced  our  suspension  at  ten  I 
in  the  morning.  If  the  Board  had  not  voted  to  make  | 
wheat  in  the  cars  ‘ regular  ’ ” \ 

He  went  on  and  on,  in  an  impassive  monotone,  re-  ti 
peating,  word  for  word,  the  same  phrases  he  had  used  | 
for  so  long  that  they  had  lost  all  significance.  ‘ 

“ Well,”  broke  in  Jadwin,  at  last,  “ it  was  Scannel,  | 
your  partner,  did  for  you.  Scannel,  I say.  You  know, 
Dave  Scannel.” 

The  old  man  looked  at  him  confusedly.  Then,  as  the 
name  forced  itself  upon  the  atrophied  brain,  there 
flashed,  for  one  instant,  into  the  pale,  blurred  eye,  a 
light,  a glint,  a brief,  quick  spark  of  an  old,  long-for-  | 
gotten  fire.  It  gleamed  there  an  instant,  but  the  next 
sank  again. 

Plaintively,  querulously  he  repeated: 

“ It  was  in  seventy-eight.  ...  I lost  three  hun- 
dred thousand  dollars.” 

“How’s  your  little  niece  getting  on?”  at  last  de- 
manded Jadwin. 


339 


I A Story  of  Chicago 

i “My  little  niece — you  mean  Lizzie?  . . . Well 
1 and  happy,  well  and  happy.  I — I got  ” — he  drew  a 
i.,.  thick  bundle  of  dirty  papers  from  his  pocket,  envelopes, 
1'  newspapers,  circulars,  and  the  like — “ I — I — I got,  I got 
= her  picture  here  somew'heres.” 

“ Yes,  yes,  I know,  I know,”  cried  Jadwin.  “ I’ve 
; seen  it.  You  showed  it  to  me  yesterday,  you  remem- 
^ ber.” 

“ I — I got  it  here  somewheres  . . , somewheres,” 
persisted  the  old  man,  fumbling  and  peering,  and  as  he 
I spoke  the  clerk  from  the  doorway  announced: 

“ Mr.  Scannel.” 

This  latter  was  a large,  thick  man,  red-faced,  with 
! white,  short  whiskers  of  an  almost  wiry  texture.  He 
i had  a small,  gimlet-like  eye,  enormous,  hairy  ears,  wore 
I a “ sack  ” suit,  a highly  polished  top  hat,  and  entered 
the  ofhce  with  a great  flourish  of  manner  and  a defiant 
trumpeting  “ Well,  how  do.  Captain?  ” 

Jadwin  nodded,  glancing  up  under  his  scowl. 

“Hello!”  he  said. 

The  other  subsided  into  a chair,  and  returned  scowl 
for  scowl. 

“ Oh,  well,”  he  muttered,  “ if  that’s  your  style.” 

He  had  observed  Hargus  sitting  by  the  other  side  of 
the  desk,  still  fumbling  and  mumbling  in  his  dirty  mem- 
oranda, but  he  gave  no  sign  of  recognition.  There  was 
a moment’s  silence,  then  in  a voice  from  which  all  the 
first  bluffness  was  studiously  excluded,  Scannel  said; 

“ Well,  you’ve  rung  the  bell  on  me.  I’m  a sucker. 
I know  it.  I’m  one  of  the  few  hundred  other  God- 
damned fools  that  you’ve  managed  to  catch  out  shoot- 
ing snipe.  Now  what  I want  to  know  is,  how  much  is 
it  going  to  cost  me  to  get  out  of  your  corner?  What’s 
the  figure?  What  do  you  say?  ” 

“ I got  a good  deal  to  say,”  remarked  Jadwin,  scowl- 
ing again. 


340 


The  Pit 


But  Hargus  had  at  last  thrust  a photograph  into  his 
hands. 

“ There  it  is,”  he  said.  “ That’s  it.  That’s  Lizzie.” 

Jadwin  took  the  picture  without  looking  at  it,  and 
as  he  continued  to  speak,  held  it  in  his  fingers,  and  oc- 
casionally tapped  it  upon  the  desk. 

" I know.  I know,  Hargus,”  he  answered.  “ I got 
a good  deal  to  say,  Mr.  David  Scannel.  Do  you  see 
this  old  man  here?  ” 

“ Oh-h,  cut  it  out!  ” growled  the  other. 

“ It’s  Hargus.  You  know  him  very  well.  You  used 
to  know  him  better.  You  and  he  together  tried  to 
swing  a great  big  deal  in  September  wheat  once  upon 
a time.  Hargus!  I say,  Hargus!  ” 

The  old  man  looked  up. 

“ Here’s  the  man  we  were  talking  about,  Scannel, 
you  remember.  Remember  Dave  Scannel,  who  was 
your  partner  in  seventy-eight?  Look  at  him.  This 
is  him  now.  He’s  a rich  man  now.  Remember  Scan- 
nel?” 

Hargus,  his  bleared  old  eyes  blinking  and  watering, 
looked  across  the  desk  at  the  other. 

“ Oh,  what’s  the  game?  ” exclaimed  Scannel.  “ I ain’t 
here  on  exhibition,  I guess.  I ” 

But  he  was  interrupted  by  a sharp,  quick  gasp  that 
all  at  once  issued  from  Kargus’s  trembling  lips.  The 
old  man  said  no  word,  but  he  leaned  far  forward  in  his 
chair,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  Scannel,  his  breath  coming 
short,  his  fingers  dancing  against  his  chin. 

“Yes,  that’s  him,  Hargus,”  said  Jadwin.  “You  and 
he  had  a big  deal  on  your  hands  a long  time  ago,”  he 
continued,  turning  suddenly  upon  Scannel,  a pulse  in  his 
temple  beginning  to  beat.  “ A big  deal,  and  you  sold 
him  out ” 


“ It’s  a lie!  ” cried  the  other. 


A Story  of  Chicago  34 1 

Jadwin  beat  his  fist  upon  the  arm  of  his  chair.  His 
I voice  was  almost  a shout  as  he  answered: 
j “ You — sold — him — out.  I know  you.  I know  the 

, kind  of  bug  you  are.  You  ruined  him  to  save  your  own 
dirty  hide,  and  all  his  life  since  poor  old  Hargus  has 
been  living  off  the  charity  of  the  boys  down  here, 
i pinched  and  hungry  and  neglected,  and  getting  on,  God 
i knows  how;  yes,  and  supporting  his  little  niece,  too, 
while  you,  you  have  been  loafing  about  your  clubs,  and 
i sprawling  on  your  steam  yachts,  and  dangling  round 
j after  your  kept  women — on  the  money  you  stole  from 
; him.” 

Scannel  squared  himself  In  his  chair,  his  little  eyes 
twinkling. 

; “ Look  here,”  he  cried,  furiously,  “ I don’t  take  that 

j kind  of  talk  from  the  best  man  that  ever  wore  shoe- 
leather.  Cut  it  out,  understand?  Cut  it  out.” 

Jadwin’s  lower  jaw  set  with  a menacing  click;  ag- 
gressive, masterful,  he  leaned  forward. 

“You  interrupt  me  again,”  he  declared,  “and  you’ll 
go  out  of  that  door  a bankrupt.  You  listen  to  me  and 
take  my  orders.  That’s  what  you’re  here  to-day  for. 
If  you  think  you  can  get  your  wheat  somewheres  else, 
suppose  you  try.” 

Scannel  sullenly  settled  himself  in  his  place.  He  did 
not  answer.  Hargus,  his  eye  wandering  again,  looked 
distressfully  from  one  to  the  other.  Then  Jadwin,  after 
shuffling  among  the  papers  of  his  desk,  fixed  a certain 
memorandum  with  his  glance.  All  at  once,  whirliiig 
about  and  facing  the  other,  he  said  quickly: 

“ You  are  short  to  our  firm  two  million  bushels  at  a 
dollar  a bushel.” 

“ Nothing  of  the  sort,”  cried  the  other.  “ It’s  a mil- 
lion and  a half.” 

Jadwin  could  not  forbear  a twinkle  of  grim  humour 
as  he  saw  how  easily  Scannel  had  fallen  Into  the  trap. 


342 


The  Pit 


“ You’re  short  a million  and  a half,  then,”  he  repeated. 

“ I’ll  let  you  have  six  hundred  thousand  of  it  at  a dollar 
and  a half  a bushel.”  ' 

“A  dollar  and  a half!  Why,  my  God,  man!  Oh, 
well  ” — Scannel  spread  out  his  hands  nonchalantly — “ I 
shall  simply  go  into  bankruptcy — ^just  as  you  said.” 

“ Oh,  no,  you  won’t,”  replied  Jadwin,  pushing  back 
and  crossing  his  legs.  “ I’ve  had  your  financial  stand- 
ing computed  very  carefully,  Mr.  Scannel.  You’ve  got 
the  ready  money.  I know  what  you  can  stand  without 
busting,  to  the  fraction  of  a cent.” 

“ Why,  it’s  ridiculous.  That  handful  of  wheat  will 
cost  me  three  hundred  thousand  dollars.” 

“ Pre-cisely.” 

And  then  all  at  once  Scannel  surrendered.  Stony, 
imperturbable,  he  drew  his  check  book  from  his  pocket. 

“ Make  it  payable  to  bearer,”  said  Jadwin. 

The  other  complied,  and  Jadwin  took  the  check  and 
looked  it  over  carefully. 

“ Now,”  he  said,  “ watch  here,  Dave  Scannel.  You  | 
see  this  check?  And  now,”  he  added,  thrusting  it  into  I 
Hargus’s  hands,  “ you  see  where  it  goes.  There’s  the  ( 
principal  of  your  debt  paid  off.” 

“ The  principal?  ” 

“You  haven’t  forgotten  the  interest,  have  you?  I ] 
won’t  compound  it,  because  that  mig/if  bust  you.  But 
six  per  cent,  interest  on  three  hundred  thousand  since 
1878,  comes  to — let’s  see — three  hundred  and  sixty 
thousand  dollars.  And  you  still  owe  me  nine  hundred 
thousand  bushels  ol  wheat.”  He  ciphered  a moment 
on  a sheet  of  note  paper.  “ If  I charge  you  a dollar 
and  forty  a bushel  for  that  wheat,  it  will  come  to  that 
sum  exactly.  . . . Yes,  that’s  correct.  I’ll  let  you 
have  the  balance  of  that  wheat  at  a dollar  forty.  Make 
the  check  payable  to  bearer  as  before.” 


1 

t 

i A Story  of  Chicago  343 

f For  a second  Scannel  hesitated,  his  face  purple,  his 
teeth  grinding  together,  then  muttering  his  rage  be- 
neath his  breath,  opened  his  check  book  again. 

“ Thank  you,”  said  Jadwin  as  he  took  the  check. 

; He  touched  his  call  bell. 

“ Kinzie,”  he  said  to  the  clerk  who  answered  it,  “ after 
: the  close  of  the  market  to-day  send  delivery  slips  for  a 
•;  million  and  a half  wlieat  to  Mr.  Scannel.  His  account 
I with  us  has  been  settled.” 

I Jadwin  turned  to  the  old  man,  reaching  out  the  sec- 
(jiond  check  to  him. 

1'  “Here  you  are,  Hargus.  Put  it  away  carefully. 
I You  see  what  it  is,  don’t  you?  Buy  your  Lizzie  a little 
1 gold  watch  with  a hundred  of  it,  and  tell  her  it’s  from 
Curtis  Jadwin,  with  his  compliments.  , . . What, 

I going,  Scannel?  Well,  good-by  to  you,  sir,  and  hey!  ” 
j he  called  after  him,  “ please  don’t  slam  the  door  as  you 
I go  out.” 

! But  he  dodged  with  a defensive  gesture  as  the  pane 
of  glass  almost  leaped  from  its  casing,  as  Scannel 
stormed  across  the  threshold. 

; Jadwin  turned  to  Hargus,  with  a solemn  wink. 

“ He  did  slam  it  after  all,  didn’t  he?  ” 

The  old  fellow,  however,  sat  fingering  the  two  checks 
in  silence.  Then  he  looked  up  at  Jadwin,  scared  and 
i trembling. 

“ I — I don’t  know,”  he  murmured,  feebly.  “ I am  a 
very  old  man.  This — this  is  a great  deal  of  money, 
sir.  I — I can’t  say;  I — I don’t  know.  I’m  an  old  man 
. . . an  old  man.” 

“You  won’t  lose  ’em,  now?” 

“ No,  no.  I’ll  deposit  them  at  once  in  the  Illinois 

Trust.  I shall  ask — I should  like " 

I “ I’ll  send  a clerk  with  you.” 

! “Yes,  yes,  that  is  about  what — what  I — what  I was 
t about  to  suggest.  But  I must  say,  Mr.  Jadwin ” 


344 


The  Pit 


He  began  to  stammer  his  thanks.  But  Jadwin  cut 
him  off.  Rising,  he  guided  Hargus  to  the  door,  one 
hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  at  the  entrance  to  the  outer 
office  called  a clerk. 

“ Take  Mr.  Hargus  over  to  the  Illinois  Trust,  Kinzie, 
and  introduce  him.  He  wants  to  open  an  account.” 

The  old  man  started  off  with  the  clerk,  but  before 
Jadwin  had  reseated  himself  at  his  desk  was  back  again. 
He  was  suddenly  all  excitement,  as  if  a great  idea  had 
abruptly  taken  possession  of  him.  Stealthy,  furtive,  he  > 
glanced  continually  over  his  shoulder  as  he  spoke,  talk- 
ing in  whispers,  a trembling  hand  shielding  his  lips. 

“ You — you  are  in — you  are  in  control  now,”  he  said. 

“ You  could  give — hey?  You  could  give  me — ^just  a J 
little — ^just  one  word.  A word  would  be  enough,  hey? 
hey?  Just  a little  tip.  My  God,  I could  make  fifty  j 
S'  dollars  by  noon.”  j 

“ Wiry,  man.  I’ve  just  given  you  about  half  a million.” 

“ Half  a million?  I don’t  know.  But  ” — he  plucked  ■ 
Jadwin  tremulously  by  the  sleeve — “just  a word,”  he  > 
begged.  “ Hey,  just  yes  or  no.”  . 

“ Haven’t  you  enough  with  those  two  checks?  ” ' 

“Those  checks?  Oh,  I know,  I know,  I know.  Ill 


salt  ’em  down.  Yes,  in  the  Illinois  Trust.  I won’t  j 
touch  ’em — not  those.  But  just  a little  tip  now,  hey?  ” ( 

“ Not  a word.  Not  a word.  Take  him  along.  Kin-  ' 
zie.” 

One  week  after  this  Jadwin  sold,  through  his  agents  ' 
in  Paris,  a tremendous  line  of  “ cash  ” wheat  at  a dol- 
lar and  sixty  cents  the  bushel.  By  now  the  foreign  de- 
mand was  a thing  almost  insensate.  There  was  no 
question  as  to  the  price.  It  was,  “ Give  us  the  wheat, 
at  whatever  cost,  at  whatever  figure,  at  whatever  ex- 
pense; only  that  it  be  rushed  to  our  markets  \\nth  all 
the  swiftness  of  steam  and  steel.”  At  home,  upon  the 


345 


1 1 A Story  of  Chicago 

r'' 

jli  Chicago  Board  of  Trade,  Jadwin  was  as  completely 
i|.  master  of  the  market  as  of  his  own  right  hand.  Every- 

i thing  stopped  when  he  raised  a finger;  everything  leaped 
<1  to  life  with  the  fury  of  obsession  when  he  nodded  his 
1'  head.  His  wealth  increased  with  such  stupefying  ra- 
ti pidity,  that  at  no  time  was  he  able  to  even  approxi- 
;i  mate  the  gains  that  accrued  to  him  because  of  his  cor- 
:|  ner.  It  was  more  than  twenty  million,  and  less  than 

ii  fifty  million.  That  was  all  he  knew  Nor  were  the 
everlasting  hills  more  secure  than  he  from  the  attack 
of  any  human  enemy.  Out  of  the  ranks  of  the  con- 

)|i  quered  there  issued  not  so  much  as  a whisper  of  hos- 
i:  tility.  Within  his  own  sphere  no  Czar,  no  satrap,  no 
Caesar  ever  wielded  power  more  resistless. 

“ Sam,”  said  Curtis  Jadwin,  at  length  to  the  broker, 
“ Sam,  nothing  in  the  world  can  stop  me  now.  They 
I think  I’ve  been  doing  something  big,  don’t  they,  with 
this  corner.  Why,  I’ve  only  just  begun.  This  is  just  a 
>ji  feeler.  Now  I’m  going  to  let  ’em  know  just  how  big 
a gun  C.  J.  really  is.  I’m  going  to  swing  this  deal  right 
1 over  into  July.  I’m  going  to  buy  in  my  July  shorts.” 

^^^he  two  men  were  in  Gretry’s  office  as  usual,  and  as 
; Jadwin  spoke,  the  broker  glanced  up  incredulously. 

“ Now  you  are  for  sure  crazy.” 

I Jadwin  jumped  to  his  feet. 

“Crazy!”  he  vociferated.  “Crazy!  What  do  you 
! mean?  Crazy!  For  God’s  sake,  Sam,  w'hat — Look 
here,  don’t  use  that  word  to  me.  I — it  don’t  suit. 

I What  I’ve  done  isn’t  exactly  the  work  of — of — takes 
1 brains,  let  me  tell  you.  And  look  here,  look  here,  I 
say.  I’m  going  to  swing  this  deal  right  over  into  July. 

I Think  I’m  going  to  let  go  now,  when  I’ve  just  begun 
' to  get  a real  grip  on  things?  A pretty  fool  I’d  look 
like  to  get  out  now — even  if  I could.  Get  out?  How 
- are  we  going  to  unload  our  big  line  of  wheat  without 


34^ 


The  Pit 


breaking  the  price  on  us?  No,  sir,  not  much.  This 
market  is  going  up  to  two  dollars.”  He  smote  a knee 
with  his  clinched  fist,  his  face  going  abruptly  crimson. 
“ I say  two  dollars,”  he  cried.  “ Two  dollars,  do  you 
hear?  It  will  go  there,  you’ll  see,  you’ll  see.” 

“ Reports  on  the  new  crop  will  begin  to  come  in  in 
June.”  Gretry’s  warning  was  almost  a cry.  “ The 
price  of  wheat  is  so  high  now,  that  God  knows  how 
many  farmers  will  plant  it  this  spring.  You  may  have 
to  take  care  of  a record  harvest.” 

‘T  know  better,”  retorted  Jadwin.  “ I’m  watching 
this  thing.  You  can’t  tell  me  anything  about  it.  I’ve 
got  it  all  figured  out,  your  ‘ new  crop.’  ” 

Cl  Well,  then  you’re  the  Lord  Almighty  himself.” 

“ I don’t  like  that  kind  of  joke.  I don’t  like  that  kind 
of  joke.  It’s  blasphemous,”  exclaimed  Jadwin.  “ Go, 
get  it  off  on  Grookes.  He’d  appreciate  it,  but  I don’t. 
But  this  new  crop  now — look  hCi'e.” 

And  for  upwards  of  two  hours  Jadwin  argued  and 
figured,  and  showed  to  Gretry  endless  tables  of  statis- 
tics to  prove  that  he  was  right. 

But  at  the  end  Gretry  shook  his  head.  Calmly  and 
deliberately  he  spoke  his  mind. 

“ J.,  listen  to  me.  You’ve  done  a big  thing.  I know 
it,  and  I know,  too,  that  there’ve  been  lots  of  times  in 
the  last  year  or  so  when  I’ve  been  wrong  and  you’ve 
been  right.  But  now,  J.,  so  help  me  God,  we’ve  reached 
our  limit.  Wheat  is  worth  a dollar  and  a half  to-day, 
and  not  one  cent  more.  Every  eighth  over  that  figure 

is  inflation.  If  you  run  it  up  to  two  dollars ” 

“ It  will  go  there  of  itself,  I tell  you.” 

“ — if  you  run  it  up  to  two  dollars,  it  will  be  that 
top-heavy,  that  the  littlest  kick  in  the  world  will  knock 
it  over.  Be  satisfied  now  with  what  you  got.  J.,  it’s 
common  sense.  Close  out  your  long  line  of  May,  and 


A Story  of  Chicago  347 

then  stop.  Suppose  the  price  does  break  a little,  you’d 
Ij  still  make  your  pile.  But  swing  this  deal  over  into 
ijjuly,  and  it’s  ruin,  ruin.  I may  have  been  mistaken 
before,  but  I know  I’m  right  now.  And  do  you  real- 
ise, J.,  that  yesterday  in  the  Pit  there  were  some 
short  sales?  There’s  some  of  them  dared  to  go  short 
of  wheat  against  you — even  at  the  very  top  of  your 
corner — and  there  was  more  selling  this  morning. 
You’ve  always  got  to  buy,  you  know.  If  they  all  be- 
gan to  sell  to  you  at  once  they’d  bust  you.  It’s  only 
because  you’ve  got  ’em  so  scared — I believe — that 
keeps  ’em  from  it.  But  it  looks  to  me  as  though  this 
selling  proved  that  they  were  picking  up  heart.  They 
think  they  can  get  the  wheat  from  the  farmers  when 
harvesting  begins.  And  I tell  you,  J.,  you’ve  put  the 
price  of  wheat  so  high,  that  the  wheat  areas  are  extend- 
ing all  over  the  country.” 

“ You’re  scared,”  cried  Jadwin.  “ That’s  the  trouble 
with  you,  Sam.  You’ve  been  scared  from  the  start. 
Can’t  you  see,  mam  can’t  you  see  that  this  market  is 
a regular  tornado? 

“ I see  that  the  farmers  all  over  the  country  are  plant- 
ing wheat  as  they’ve  never  planted  it  before.  Great 
Scott,  J.,  you’re  fighting  against  the  earth  itself.” 

“Well,  we’ll  fight  it,  then.  I’ll  stop  those  hayseeds. 
What  do  I own  all  these  newspapers  and  trade  journals 
for?  We’ll  begin  sending  out  reports  to-morrow  that’ll 
discourage  any  big  wheat  planting.” 

“ And  then,  too,”  went  on  Gretry,  “ here’s  another 
point.  Do  you  know,  you  ought  to  be  in  bed  this  very 
minute.  You  haven’t  got  any  nerves  left  at  all.  You 
acknowledge  yourself  that  you  don’t  sleep  any  more. 
And,  good  Lord,  the  moment  any  one  of  us  contradicts 
you,  or  opposes  you,  you  go  off  the  handle  to  beat  the 
Dutch.  I know  it’s  a strain,  old  man,  but  you  want 


348 


The  Pit 


to  keep  yourself  in  hand  if  you  go  on  with  this  thing. 
If  you  should  break  down  now — ^well,  I don’t  like  to 
think  of  what  would  happen.  You  ought  to  see  a doc- 
tor.” 

“ Oh-h,  fiddlesticks,”  exclaimed  Jadwin,  “ I’m  all 
right.  I don’t  need  a doctor,  haven’t  time  to  see  one, 
anyhow.  Don’t  you  bother  about  me.  I’m  all  right.” 

Was  he?  That  same  night,  the  first  he  had  spent 
under  his  own  roof  for  four  days,  Jadwin  lay  awake 
till  the  clocks  struck  four,  asking  himself  the  same  ques- 
tion. No,  he  was  not  all  right.  Something  was  very 
wrong  with  him,  and  whatever  it  might  be,  it  was 
growing  worse.  The  sensation  of  the  iron  clamp  about 
his  head  was  almost  permanent  by  now,  and  just  the 
walk  between  his  room  at  the  Grand  Pacific  and 
Gretry’s  office  left  him  panting  and  exhausted.  Then 
had  come  vertigoes  and  strange,  inexplicable  qualms, 
as  if  he  were  in  an  elevator  that  sank  under  him  with 
terrifying  rapidity. 

Going  to  and  fro  in  La  Salle  Street,  or  sitting  in 
Gretry’s  office,  where  the  roar  of  the  Pit  dinned  forever 
in  his  ears,  he  could  forget  these  strange  symptoms.  It 
was  the  night  he  dreaded — the  long  hours  he  must 
spend  alone.  The  instant  the  strain  was  relaxed,  the 
gallop  of  hoofs,  or  as  the  beat  of  ungovernable  tor- 
rents began  in  his  brain.  Always  the  beat  dropped  to 
the  same  cadence,  always  the  pulse  spelled  out  the  same 
words: 

“ Wheat-wheat-wheat,  wheat-wheat-wheat.” 

And  of  late,  during  the  long  and  still  watches  of  the 
night,  while  he  stared  at  the  ceiling,  or  counted  the 
hours  that  must  pass  before  his  next  dose  of  bromide 
of  potassium,  a new  turn  had  been  given  to  the  screw. 

This  was  a sensation,  the  like  of  which  he  found  it 
difficult  to  describe.  But  it  seemed  to  be  a slow,  tense 


349 


A Story  of  Chicago 

crisping  of  every  tiniest  nerve  in  his  body.  It  would 
begin  as  he  lay  in  bed — counting  interminably  to  get 
himself  to  sleep — between  his  knees  and  ankles,  and 
thence  slowly  spread  to  every  part  of  him,  creeping 
upward,  from  loin  to  shoulder,  in  a gradual  wave  of 
torture  that  was  not  pain,  yet  infinitely  worse.  A dry, 
pringling  aura  as  of  billions  of  minute  electric  shocks 
crept  upward  over  his  flesh,  till  it  reached  his  head, 
where  it  seemed  to  culminate  in  a white  flash,  w’hich  he 
felt  rather  than  saw. 

His  body  felt  strange  and  unfamiliar  to  him.  It 
seemed  to  have  no  weight,  and  at  times  his  hands 
would  appear  to  swell  swiftly  to  the  size  of  mammoth 
boxing-gloves,  so  that  he  must  rub  them  together  to 
feel  that  they  were  his  own. 

He  put  off  consulting  a doctor  from  day  to  day,  alleg- 
ing that  he  had  not  the  time.  But  the  real  reason, 
though  he  never  admitted  it,  was  the  fear  that  the  doc- 
tor might  tell  him  what  he  guessed  to  be  the  truth. 

Were  his  wits  leaving  him?  The  horror  of  the  ques- 
tion smote  through  him  like  the  drive  of  a javelin. 
What  was  to  happen?  What  nameless  calamity  im- 
pended? 

“ Wheat-wheat-wheat,  wheat-wheat-wheat.” 

His  watch  under  his  pillow  took  up  the  refrain.  How 
to  grasp  the  morrow’s  business,  how  control  the  sluice 
gates  of  that  torrent  he  had  unchained,  with  this  un- 
speakable crumbling  and  disintegrating  of  his  faculties 
going  on? 

Jaded,  feeble,  he  rose  to  meet  another  day.  He 
drove  down  town,  trying  not  to  hear  the  beat  of  his 
horses’  hoofs.  Dizzy  and  stupefied,  he  gained  Gretry’s 
office,  and  alone  with  his  terrors  sat  in  the  chair  before 
his  desk,  waiting,  waiting. 

Then  far  away  the  great  gong  struck.  Just  over  his 


/ 


350  The  Pit  ' 

head,  penetrating  wood  and  iron,  he  heard  the  mighty 
throe  of  the  Pit  once  more  beginning,  moving.  And 
then,  once  again,  the  limp  and  ravelled  fibres  of  being 
grew  tight  with  a wrench.  Under  the  stimulus  of  the 
roar  of  the  maelstrom,  the  flagging,  wavering  brain 
righted  itself  once  more,  and — how,  he  himself  could 
not  say — the  business  of  the  day  was  despatched,  the 
battle  was  once  more  urged.  Often  he  acted  upon 
what  he  knew  to  be  blind,  unreasoned  instinct.  I Judg- 
ment, clear  reasoning,  at  times,  he  felt,  forsooK  him. 
Decisions  that  involved  what  seemed  to  be  the  very 
stronghold  of  his  situation,  had  to  be  taken  without  a 
moment’s  warning.  He  decided  for  or  against  without 
knowing  why.  Under  his  feet  fissures  opened.  He 
must  take  the  leap  without  seeing  the  other  edge. 
Somehow  he  always  landed  upon  his  feet ; somehow  his 
great,  cumbersome  engine,  lurching,  swaydng,  in  spite 
of  loosened  joints,  always  kept  the  track. 

Luck,  his  golden  goddess,  the  genius  of  glittering 
wings,  was  with  him  yet.  Sorely  tried,  flouted  even, 
she  yet  remained  faithful,  lending  a helping  hand  to  lost 
and  wandering  judgment!^ 

So  the  month  of  May  drew  to  its  close.  Between 
the  twenty-fifth  and  the  thirtieth  Jadwin  covered  his 
July  shortage,  despite  Gretry’s  protests  and  warnings. 
To  him  they  seemed  idle  enough.  He  was  too  rich, 
too  strong  now  to  fear  any  issue.  Daily  the  profits 
of  the  corner  increased.  The  unfortunate  shorts  were 
wrung  dry  and  drier.  Gretry’s  office  they  heard 
their  sentences,  and  as  time  went  on,  and  Jadwin  be- 
held more  and  more  of  these  broken  speculators,  a 
vast  contempt,  for  human  nature  grew  within  hini^ 

Some  few  of  his  beaten  enemies  were  resolute  enough, 
accepting  defeat  with  grim  carelessness,  or  with  sphinx- 
like  indifference,  or  even  with  airy  jocularity.  But  foi 


351 


A Story  of  Chicago 

the  most  part  their  alert,  eager  deference,  their  tame 
subservience,  the  abject  humility  and  debasement  of 
their  bent  shoulders  drove  Jadwin  to  the  verge  of  self- 
control.  He  grew  to  detest  the  business;  he  regretted 
even  the  defiant  brutality  of  Scannel,  a rascal,  but  none 
the  less  keeping  his  head  high.  The  more  the  fellows 
cringed  to  him,  the  tighter  he  wrenched  the  screw.  In 
a few  cases  he  found  a pleasure  in  relenting  entirely, 
selling  his  wheat  to  the  unfortunates  at  a price  that 
left  them  without  loss;  but  in  the  end  the  business 
hardened  his  heart  to  any  distress  his  mercilessness 
might  entail.  He  took  his  profits  as  a Bourbon  took 
his  taxes,  as  if  by  right  of  birth.  Somewhere,  in  a 
long-forgotten  history  of  his  brief  school  days,  he  had 
come  across  a phrase  that  he  remembered  now,  by 
some  devious  and  distant  process  of  association,  and 
when  he  heard  of  the  calamities  that  his  campaign  had 
wrought,  of  the  shipwrecked  fortunes  and  careers  tha 
were  sucked  down  by  the  Pit,  he  found  it  possible  ♦ 
say,  with  a short  laugh,  and  a lift  of  one  shoulder: 

“ Vae  victis” 

His  wife  he  saw  but  seldom.  Occasionally  they  bre' 
fasted  together;  more  often  they  met  at  dinner.  1: 
that  was  all.  Jadwin’s  life  by  now  had  come  to  be 
irregular,  and  his  few  hours  of  sleep  so  precious  and  s 
easily  disturbed,  that  he  had  long  since  occupied  a 
separate  apartment. 

What  Laura’s  life  was  at  this  time  he  no  longer  knew. 
She  never  spoke  of  it  to  him;  never  nowadays  com- 
plained of  loneliness.  When  he  saw  her  she  appeared 
to  be  cheerful.  But  this  very  cheerfulness  made  him 
uneasy,  and  at  times,  through  the  murk  of  the  chaff  of 
wheat,  through  the  bellow  of  the  Pit,  and  the  crash  of 
collapsing  fortunes  there  reached  him  a suspicion  that 
all  was  not  well  with  Laura. 


352 


The  Pit 


Once  he  had  made  an  abortive  attempt  to  break  from 
the  turmoil  of  La  Salle  Street  and  the  Board  of  Trade, 
and,  for  a time  at  least,  to  get  back  to  the  old  life  they 
both  had  loved — to  get  back,  in  a word,  to  her.  But 
the  consequences  had  been  all  but  disastrous.  Now  he 
could  not  keep  away. 

“Corner  wheat!”  he  had  exclaimed  to  her,  the  fol- 
lowing day.  “ Corner  wheat!  It’s  the  wheat  that  has 
cornered  me.  It’s  like  holding  a wolf  by  the  ears,  bad 
to  hold  on,  but  worse  to  let  go.” 

But  absorbed,  blinded,  deafened  by  the  whirl  of 
things,  Curtis  Jadwin  could  not  see  how  perilously 
well  grounded  had  been  his  faint  suspicion  as  to  Laura’s 
distress. 

On  the  day  after  her  evening  with  her  husband  in 
the  art  gallery,  the  evening  when  Gretry  had  broken 
in  upon  them  like  a courier  from  the  front,  Laura  had 
risen  from  her  bed  to  look  out  upon  a world  suddenly 
mpty. 

Corthell  she  had  sent  from  her  forever.  Jadwin  was 
ice  more  snatched  from  her  side.  Where,  now,  was 
'e  to  turn?  Jadwin  had  urged  her  to  go  to  the  coun- 
/ — to  their  place  at  Geneva  Lake — but  she  refused, 
le  saw  the  change  that  had  of  late  come  over  her 
.usband,  saw  his  lean  face,  the  hot,  tired  eyes,  the 
trembling  fingers  and  nervous  gestures.  Vaguely  she 
imagined  approaching  disaster.  If  anything  happened 
to  Curtis,  her  place  was  at  his  side. 

During  the  days  that  Jadwin  and  Crookes  were  at 
grapples  Laura  found  means  to  occupy  her  mind  with 
all  manner  of  small  activities.  She  overhauled  her  ward- 
robe, planned  her  summer  gowns,  paid  daily  visits  to 
her  dressmakers,  rode  and  drove  in  the  park,  till  every 
turn  of  the  roads,  everj^  tree,  everj'  bush  was  familiar, 
to  the  point  of  wearisome  contempt. 


A Story  of  Chicago 


353 


Then  suddenly  she  began  to  indulge  in  a mania  for 
lold  books  and  first  editions.  She  haunted  the  sta- 
tioners and  second-hand  bookstores,  studied  the  au- 
thorities, followed  the  auctions,  and  bought  right  and 
left,  with  reckless  extravagance.  But  the  taste  soon 
palled  upon  her.  With  so  much  money  at  her  com- 
mand there  was  none  of  the  spice  of  the  hunt  in  the 
affair.  She  had  but  to  express  a desire  for  a certain 
treasure,  and  forthwith  it  was  put  into  her  hand. 

She  found  it  so  in  all  other  things.  Her  desires  were 
gratified  with  an  abruptness  that  killed  the  zest  of  them. 
She  felt  none  of  the  joy  of  possession;  the  little  per- 
sonal relation  between  her  and  her  belongings  van- 
ished away.  Her  gowns,  beautiful  beyond  all  she  had 
ever  imagined,  were  of  no  more  interest  to  her  than  a 
drawerful  of  outworn  gloves.  She  bought  horses 
till  she  could  no  longer  tell  them  apart;  her  carriages 
crowded  three  supplementary  stables  in  the  neighbour- 
hood. Her  flowers,  miracles  of  laborious  cultivation, 
filled  the  whole  house  with  their  fragrance.  Wherever 
she  went  deference  moved  before  her  like  a guard;  her 
beauty,  her  enormous  wealth,  her  wonderful  horses, 
her  exquisite  gowns  made  of  her  a cynosure,  a veritable 
queen. 

And  hardly  a day  passed  that  Laura  Jadwin,  in  the 
solitude  of  her  own  boudoir,  did  not  fling  her  arms 
wide  in  a gesture  of  lassitude  and  infinite  weariness,  cry- 
ing out: 

“ Oh,  the  ennui  and  stupidity  of  all  this  wretched 
fife!  ” 

She  could  look  forward  to  nothing.  One  day  was  like 
the  next.  No  one  came  to  see  her.  For  all  her  great 
house  and  for  all  her  money,  she  had  made  but  few 
friends.  Her  “ grand  manner  ” had  never  helped  her 
popularity.  She  passed  her  evenings  alone  in  her  “ up- 


354 


The  Pit 


stairs  sitting-room,”  reading,  reading  till  far  into  the 
night;  or,  the  lights  extinguished,  sat  at  her  open  win- 
dow listening  to  the  monotonous  lap  and  wash  of  the 
lake. 

At  such  moments  she  thought  of  the  men  who  had 
come  into  her  life — of  the  love  she  had  known  al- 
most from  her  girlhood.  She  remembered  her  first 
serious  affair.  It  had  been  with  the  impecunious  theo- 
logical student  who  was  her  tutor.  He  had  worn 
glasses  and  little  black  side  whiskers,  and  had  implored 
her  to  marry  him  and  come  to  China,  where  he  was 
to  be  a missionary.  Every  time  that  he  came  he  had 
brought  her  a new  book  to  read,  and  he  had  taken  her 
for  long  walks  up  towards  the  hills  where  the  old  pow- 
der mill  stood.  Then  it  was  the  young  lawj^er — the 
“ brightest  man  in  Worcester  County  ” — who  took  her 
driving  in  a hired  buggy,  sent  her  a multitude  of  paper 
novels  (which  she  never  read),  with  every  love  passage 
carefully  underscored,  and  wrote  very  bad  verse  to 
her  eyes  and  hair,  whose  “ velvet  blackness  was  the 
shadow  of  a crown.”  Or,  again,  it  was  the  youthful 
cavalry  officer  met  in  a flying  visit  to  her  Boston  aunt, 
who  loved  her  on  first  sight,  gave  her  his  photograph 
in  uniform  and  a bead  belt  of  Apache  workmanship. 
He  was  forever  singing  to  her — to  a guitar  accompani- 
ment— an  old  love  song:  I 

“At  midnight  hour 
Beneath  the  tower 
He  murmured  soft, 

“ Oh  nothing  fearing 
With  thine  own  true  soldier  fly.’" 

Then  she  had  come  to  Chicago,  and  Landr}'  Court,  : 
with  his  bright  enthusiasms  and  fine  exaltations  had  : 
loved  her.  She  had  never  taken  him  very  seriously, 
but  none  the  less  it  had  been  very  sweet  to  know  his  J 


A Story  of  Chicago 


355 


I whole  universe  depended  upon  the  nod  of  her  head,  and 
that  her  influence  over  him  had  been  so  potent,  had 
I kept  him  clean  and  loyal  and  honest. 

I And  after  this  Corthell  and  Jadwin  had  come  into  her 
life,  the  artist  and  the  man  of  affairs.  She  remem- 
bered Corthell’s  quiet,  patient,  earnest  devotion  of 
! those  days  before  her  marriage.  He  rarely  spoke  to 
1 her  of  his  love,  but  by  some  ingenious  subtlety  he  had 
filled  her  whole  life  with  it.  His  little  attentions,  his  un- 
demonstrative solicitudes  came  precisely  when  and 
where  they  were  most  appropriate.  He  had  never 
failed  her.  Whenever  she  had  needed  him,  or  even, 
when  through  caprice  or  impulse  she  had  turned  to  him, 
it  always  had  been  to  find  that  long  since  he  had  care- 
I fully  prepared  for  that  very  contingency.  His  thought- 
: fulness  of  her  had  been  a thing  to  wonder  at.  He  re- 
membered for  months,  years  even,  her  most  trivial 
fancies,  her  unexpressed  dislikes.  He  knew  her  tastes, 

' as  if  by  instinct;  he  prepared  little  surprises  for  her, 

I and  placed  them  in  her  way  without  ostentation,  and 
quite  as  matters  of  course.  He  never  permitted  her 
to  be  embarrassed;  the  little  annoying  situations  of  the 
day’s  life  he  had  smoothed  away  long  before  they  had 
I ensnared  her.  He  never  was  off  his  guard,  never  dis- 
' turbed,  never  excited. 

I And  he  amused  her,  he  entertained  her  without  seem- 
ing to  do  so.  He  made  her  talk;  he  made  her  think. 
He  stimulated  and  aroused  her,  so  that  she  herself 
talked  and  thought  with  a brilliancy  that  surprised  her- 
I self.  In  fine,  he  had  so  contrived  that  she  associated 
!:  him  with  everything  that  was  agreeable. 

I She  had  sent  him  away  the  first  time,  and  he  had  gone 
without  a murmur;  only  to  come  back  loyal  as  ever, 
silent,  watchful,  sympathetic,  his  love  for  her  deeper, 
stronger  than  before,  and — as  always  timely — bringing 


356 


The  Pit 


to  her  a companionship  at  the  moment  of  all  others 
when  she  was  most  alone. 

Now  she  had  driven  him  from  her  again,  and  this 
time,  she  very  well  knew,  it  was  to  be  forever.  She 
had  shut  the  door  upon  this  great  love. 

Laura  stirred  abruptly  in  her  place,  adjusting  her 
hair  with  nervous  fingers. 

And,  last  of  all,  it  had  been  Jadwin,  her  husband. 
She  rose  and  went  to  the  window,  and  stood  there  a 
long  moment,  looking  off  into  the  night  over  the  park. 
It  was  warm  and  very  still.  A few  carriage  lamps 
glimpsed  among  the  trees  like  fireflies.  Along  the  walks 
and  upon  the  benches  she  could  see  the  glow  of  white 
dresses  and  could  catch  the  sound  of  laughter.  Far  off, 
somewhere  in  the  shrubbery,  she  thought  she  heard  a 
band  playing.  To  the  northeast  lay  the  lake,  shim- 
mering under  the  moon,  dotted  here  and  there  with  the 
coloured  lights  of  steamers. 

She  turned  back  into  the  room.  The  great  house  was 
still.  From  all  its  suites  of  rooms,  its  corridors,  gal- 
leries, and  hallways  there  came  no  sound.  There  was 
no  one  upon  the  same  floor  as  herself.  She  had  read 
all  her  books.  It  was  too  late  to  go  out — and  there  was 
no  one  to  go  with.  To  go  to  bed  was  ridiculous.  She 
was  never  more  wakeful,  never  more  alive,  never  more 
ready  to  be  amused,  diverted,  entertained. 

She  thought  of  the  organ,  and  descending  to  the  art 
gallery,  played  Bach,  Palestrina,  and  Stainer  for  an 
hour ; then  suddenly  she  started  from  the  console,  with 
a sharp,  impatient  movement  of  her  head. 

“ Why  do  I play  this  stupid  music?  ” she  exclaimed. 
She  called  a servant  and  asked : 

“ Has  Mr.  Jadwin  come  in  yet?  ” 

“ Mr.  Gretry  just  this  minute  telephoned  that  Mr. 
Jadwin  would  not  be  home  to-night.” 


I A Story  of  Chicago  357 

I When  the  servant  had  gone  out  Laura,  her  lips  com- 
jpressed,  flung  up  her  head.  Her  hands  shut  to  hard 
|fists,  her  eye  flashed.  Rigid,  erect  in  the  middle  of  the 
(floor,  her  arms  folded,  she  uttered  a smothered  ex- 
iclamation  over  and  over  again  under  her  breath, 
j All  at  once  anger  mastered  her — anger  and  a cer- 
litain  defiant  recklessness,  an  abrupt  spirit  of  revolt. 
fShe  straightened  herself  suddenly,  as  one  who  takes  a 
(decision.  Then,  swiftly,  she  went  out  of  the  art  gal- 
llery,  and,  crossing  the  hallway,  entered  the  library  and 
opened  a great  writing-desk  that  stood  in  a recess  under 
la  small  stained  window. 

I She  pulled  the  sheets  of  note  paper  towards  her  and 
wrote  a short  letter,  directing  the  envelope  to  Sheldon 
|Corthell,  The  Fine  Arts  Building,  Michigan  Avenue. 

! “ Call  a messenger,”  she  said  to  the  servant  who  an- 
iswered  her  ring,  “and  have  him  take — or  send  him  in 
here  when  he  comes.” 

! She  rested  the  letter  against  the  inkstand,  and  leaned 
hack  in  her  chair,  looking  at  it,  her  fingers  plucking 
I swiftly  at  the  lace  of  her  dress.  Her  head  was  in  a 
whirl.  A confusion  of  thoughts,  impulses,  desires, 
Falf-formed  resolves,  half-named  regrets,  swarmed  and 
spun  about  her.  She  felt  as  though  she  had  all  at  once 
taken  a leap — a leap  which  had  landed  her  in  a place 
whence  she  could  see  a new  and  terrible  country,  an 
unfamiliar  place — terrible,  yet  beautiful — unexplored, 
and  for  that  reason  all  the  more  inviting,  a place  of 
shadows. 

Laura  rose  and  paced  the  floor,  her  hands  pressed 
[together  over  her  heart.  She  was  excited,  her  cheeks 

I flushed,  a certain  breathless  exhilaration  came  and 
went  within  her  breast,  and  in  place  of  the  intolerable 
ennui  of  the  last  days,  there  came  over  her  a sudden, 
an  almost  wild  animation,  and  from  out  her  black  eyes 
Uhere  shot  a kind  of  furious  gaiety. 


The  Pit 


158 


But  she  was  aroused  by  a step  at  the  door.  The 
messenger  stood  there,  a figure  ridiculously  inadequate 
for  the  intensity  of  all  that  was  involved  in  the  issue  of 
the  hour — a weazened,  stunted  boy,  in  a uniform  many 
sizes  too  large. 

Laura,  seated  at  her  desk,  held  the  note  towards  him 
resolutely.  Now  was  no  time  to  hesitate,  to  temporise. 
If  she  did  not  hold  to  her  resolve  now,  what  was  there 
to  look  forward  to?  Could  one’s  life  be  emptier  than 
hers — emptier,  more  intolerable,  more  humiliating? 

“ Take  this  note  to  that  address,”  she  said,  putting 
the  envelope  and  a coin  in  the  boy’s  hand.  “ Wait  for 
an  answer.” 

The  boy  shut  the  letter  in  his  book,  which  he  thrust 
into  his  breast  -pocket,  buttoning  his  coat  over  it.  He 
nodded  and  turned  away. 

Still  seated,  Laura  watched  him  moving  towards  the 
door.  Well,  it  was  over  now.  She  had  chosen.  She 
had  taken  the  leap.  What  new  life  was  to  begin  for 
her  to-morrow?  What  did  it  all  mean?  With  an  in- 
conceivable rapidity  her  thoughts  began  racing  through 
her  brain. 

She  did  not  move.  Her  hands,  gripped  tight  to- 
gether, rested  upon  the  desk  before  her.  Without 
turning  her  head,  she  watched  the  retreating  messenger, 
from  under  her  lashes.  He  passed  out  of  the  door,  the 
curtain  fell  behind  him. 

And  only  then,  when  the  irrevocableness  of  the  step 
was  all  but  an  accomplished  fact,  came  the  reaction. 

“Stop!”  she  cried,  springing  up.  “Stop!  Come 
back  here.  Wait  a moment.” 

What  had  happened?  She  could  neither  understand 
nor  explain. . Somehow  an  instant  of  clear  Ausion  had 
come,  and  in  that  instant  a power  wfithin  her  that  was 
herself  and  not  herself,  and  laid  hold  upon  her  will. 


A Story  of  Chicago  359 

No,  no,  she  could  not,  she  could  not,  after  all.  She 
took  the  note  back. 

“ I have  changed  my  mind,”  she  said,  abruptly.  “ You 
may  keep  the  money.  There  is  no  message  to  be  sent.” 

As  soon  as  the  boy  had  gone  she  opened  the  en- 
ivelope  and  read  what  she  had  written.  But  now  the 
words  seemed  the  work  of  another  mind  than  her  own. 
They  were  unfamiliar;  they  were  not  the  words  of  the 
[Laura  Jadwin  she  knew.  Why  was  it  that  from  the 
:Very  first  hours  of  her  acquaintance  with  this  man,  and 
in  every  circumstance  of  their  intimacy,  she  had  always 
acted  upon  impulse?  What  was  there  in  him  that 
called  into  being  all  that  was  reckless  in  her? 

And  for  how  long  was  she  to  be  able  to  control  these 
impulses?  This  time  she  had  prevailed  once  more 
against  that  other  impetuous  self  of  hers.  Would  she 
prevail  the  next  time?  And  in  these  struggles,  was  she 
growing  stronger  as  she  overcame,  or  weaker?  She 
did  not  know.  She  tore  the  note  into  fragments,  and 
making  a heap  of  them  in  the  pen  tray,  burned  them 
carefully. 

During  the  week  following  upon  this,  Laura  found 
her  trouble  more  than  ever  keen.  She  was  burdened 
with  a new  distress.  The  incident  of  the  note  to  Cor- 
thell,  recalled  at  the  last  moment,  had  opened  her  eyes 
to  possibilities  of  the  situation  hitherto  unguessed. 
She  saw  now  what  she  might  be  capable  of  doing  in  a 
moment  of  headstrong  caprice,  she  saw  depths  in  her 
nature  she  had  not  plumbed.  Whether  these  hidden 
pitfalls  were  peculiarly  hers,  or  whether  they  were  com- 
mon to  all  women  placed  as  she  now  found  herself,  she 
did  not  pause  to  inquire.  She  thought  only  of  results, 
and  she  was  afraid. 

But  for  the  matter  of  that,  Laura  had  long  since 
passed  the  point  of  deliberate  consideration  or  reasoned 


360 


The  Pit 

calculation.  The  reaction  had  been  as  powerful  as  the 
original  purpose,  and  she  was  even  yet  struggling 
blindly,  intuitively. 

For  what  she  was  now  about  to  do  she  could  give 
no  reason,  and  the  motives  for  this  final  and  supreme 
effort  to  conquer  the  league  of  circumstances  which 
hemmed  her  in  were  obscure.  She  did  not  even  ask 
what  they  were.  She  knew  only  that  she  was  in  trouble, 
and  yet  it  was  to  the  cause  of  her  distress  that  she  ad- 
dressed herself.  Blindly  she  turned  to  her  husband; 
and  all  the  woman  in  her  roused  itself,  girded  itself, 
called  up  its  every  resource  in  one  last  test,  in  one  ulti- 
j mate  trial  of  strength  between  her  and  the  terrible 
growing  power  of  that  blind,  soulless  force  that  roared 
and  guttered  and  sucked,  down  there  in  the  midst  of  the 
city. 

She  alone,  one  unaided  woman,  her  only  auxiliaries 
her  beauty,  her  wit,  and  the  frayed,  strained  bands  of 
a sorely  tried  love,  stood  forth  like  a challenger,  against 
Charybdis,  joined  battle  with  the  Cloaca,  held  back  with 
her  slim,  white  hands  against  the  power  of  the  mael- 
strom that  swung  the  Nations  in  its  grip. 

In  the  solitude  of  her  room  she  took  the  resolve.  : 
Her  troubles  were  multiplying;  she,  too,  w^as  in  the  j 
current,  the  end  of  which  was  a pit — a pit  black  and  I 
without  bottom.  Once  already  its  grip  had  seized  her,  ■ 
once  already  she  had  yielded  to  the  insidious  drift,  i 
Now  suddenly  aware  of  a danger,  she  fought  back,  and  | 
her  hands  beating  the  air  for  help,  turned  towards  the  j 
greatest  strength  she  knew. 

“ I want  my  husband,”  she  cried,  aloud,  to  the  empty  I 
darkness  of  the  night.  “ I want  my  husband.  I \H11  ; 
have  him;  he  is  mine,  he  is  mine.  There  shall  nothing  j 
take  me  from  him;  there  shall  nothing  take  him  from  I 
me.” 


A Story  of  Chicago 


361 

I Her  first  opportunity  came  upon  a Sunday  soon  after- 
ward. Jadwin,  wakeful  all  the  Saturday  night,  slept  a 
little  in  the  forenoon,  and  after  dinner  Laura  came  to 
him  in  his  smoking-room,  as  he  lay  on  the  leather 
I lounge  trying  to  read.  His  wife  seated  herself  at  a 
writing-table  in  a corner  of  the  room,  and  by  and  by 
■ began  turning  the  slips  of  a calendar  that  stood  at  her 
elbow.  At  last  she  tore  off  one  of  the  slips  and  held  it 
up. 

“ Curtis.” 

“ Well,  old  girl?” 

“ Do  you  see  that  date?  ” 

He  looked  over  to  her. 

j “ Do  you  see  that  date  ? Do  you  know  of  anything 
that  makes  that  day  different — a little — from  other 
days?  It’s  June  thirteenth.  Do  you  remember  what 
June  thirteenth  is  ? ” 

Puzzled,  he  shook  his  head. 

I “ No— no.” 

i Laura  took  up  a pen  and  wrote  a few  words  in  the 
: space  above  the  printed  figures  reserved  for  memo- 
randa. Then  she  handed  the  slip  to  her  husband,  who 
I read  aloud  what  she  had  written. 

“ ‘ Laura  Jadwin’s  birthday.’  Why,  upon  my  word,” 
he  declared,  sitting  upright.  “ So  it  is,  so  it  is.  June 
thirteenth,  of  course.  And  I was  beast  enough  not  to 
5!  realise  it.  Honey,  I can’t  remember  anything  these 
:'j  days,  it  seems.” 

J “But  you  are  going  to  remember  this  time?”  she 
1;  said.  “ You  are  not  going  to  forget  it  now.  That 
jj  evening  is  going  to  mark  the  beginning  of — oh,  Cur- 
'ji  tis,  it  is  going  to  be  a new  beginning  of  everything. 

You’ll  see.  I’m  going  to  manage  it.  I don’t  know 
I how,  but  you  are  going  to  love  me  so  that  nothing,  no 
I business,  no  money,  no  wheat  will  ever  keep  you  from 


362 


The  Pit 


me.  I will  make  you.  And  that  evening,  that  evening 
of  June  thirteenth  is  mine.  The  day  your  business  can 
have  you,  but  from  six  o’clock  on  you  are  mine.”  She 
crossed  the  room  quickly  and  took  both  his  hands  in 
hers  and  knelt  beside  him.  “ It  is  mine,”  she  said, 
“if  you  love  me.  Do  you  understand,  dear?  You 
will  come  home  at  six  o’clock,  and  whatever  happens 
— oh,  if  all  La  Salle  Street  should  burn  to  the  ground, 
and  all  your  millions  of  bushels  of  wheat  with  it — what- 
ever happens,  you — will — not — leave — me — nor  think  of 
anything  else  but  just  me,  me.  That  evening  is  mine, 
and  you  will  give  it  to  me,  just  as  I have  said.  I won’t 
remind  you  of  it  again.  I won’t  speak  of  it  again.  I 
will  leave  it  to  you.  But — ^}^ou  will  give  me  that  eve- 
ning if  you  love  me.  Dear,  do  you  see  just  what  I 
mean?  If  you  love  me.  . . . No — no, 

don’t  say  a word,  we  won’t  talk  about  it  at  all.  No, 
no,  please.  Not  another  word.  I don’t  want  you  to 
promise,  or  pledge  yourself,  or  anything  like  that. 
You’ve  heard  what  I said — and  that’s  all  there  is  about 
it.  We’ll  talk  of  something  else.  By  the  way,  have 
you  seen  Mr.  Cressler  lately?  ” 

“ No,”  he  said,  falling  into  her  mood,  “ No,  I 
haven’t  seen  Charlie  in  over  a month.  Wonder  what’s 
become  of  him?  ” 

“ I understand  he’s  been  sick,”  she  told  him.  “ I met 
Mrs.  Cressler  the  other  day,  and  she  said  she  was 
bothered  about  him.” 

“ Well,  what’s  the  matter  with  old  Charlie?  ” 

“ She  doesn’t  know,  herself.  He’s  not  sick  enough  to 
go  to  bed,  but  he  doesn’t  or  won’t  go  down  towm  to  his 
business.  She  says  she  can  see  him  growing  thinner 
every  day.  He  keeps  telling  her  he’s  all  right,  but  for 
all  that,  she  says,  she’s  afraid  he’s  going  to  come  dow'n 
with  some  kind  of  sickness  pretty  soon.” 


3^3 


A Story  of  Chicago 

> Say,”  said  Jadwin,  “ suppose  we  drop  around  to 
’ see  them  this  afternoon?  Wouldn’t  you  like  to?  I 
' haven’t  seen  him  in  over  a month,  as  I say.  Or  tele- 
' phone  them  to  come  up  and  have  dinner.  Charlie’s 
’ about  as  old  a friend  as  I have.  We  used  to  be  together 
about  every  hour  of  the  day  when  we  first  came  to 
Chicago.  Let’s  go  over  to  see  him  this  afternoon  and 
cheer  him  up.” 

“ No,”  said  Laura,  decisively.  “ Curtis,  you  must 
have  one  day  of  rest  out  of  the  week.  You  are  going 
to  lie  down  all  the  rest  of  the  afternoon,  and  sleep  if 
you  ca::.  I’ll  call  on  them  to-morrow.” 

“ Well,  all  right,”  he  assented.  “ I suppose  I ought 
to  sleep  if  I can.  And  then  Sam  is  coming  up  here,  by 
five.  He’s  going  to  bring  some  railroad  men  with  him. 
We’ve  got  a lot  to  do.  Yes,  I guess,  old  girl.  I’ll  try  to 
get  forty  winks  before  they  get  here.  And,  Laura,”  he 
added,  taking  her  hand  as  she  rose  to  go,  “ Laura,  this 
is  the  last  lap.  In  just  another  month  now — oh,  at 
i the  outside,  six  weeks — I’ll  have  closed  the  corner,  and 
i then,  old  girl,  you  and  I will  go  somewheres,  any- 
where you  like,  and  then  we’ll  have  a good  time  to- 
gether all  the  rest  of  our  lives — all  the  rest  of  our  lives, 
honey.  Good-by.  Now  I think  I can  go  to  sleep.” 

I She  arranged  the  cushions  under  his  head  and  drew 
the  curtains  close  over  the  windows,  and  went  out, 
softly  closing  the  door  behind  her.  And  a half  hour 
later,  when  she  stole  in  to  look  at  him,  she  found  him 
asleep  at  last,  the  tired  eyes  closed,  and  the  arm,  with 
its  broad,  strong  hand,  resting  under  his  head.  She 
' stood  a long  moment  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  look- 
ing down  at  him;  and  then  slipped  out  as  noiselessly  as 
she  had  come,  the  tears  trembling  on  her  eyelashes. 

Laura  Jadwin  did  not  call  on  the  Cresslers  the  next 
day,  nor  even  the  next  after  that.  For  three  days  she 


3^4 


The  Pit 


kept  indoors,  held  prisoner  by  a series  of  petty  inci- 
dents ; now  the  delay  in  the  finishing  of  her  new  gowns, 
now  by  the  excessive  heat,  now  by  a spell  of  rain.  By 
Thursday,  however,  at  the  beginning  of  the  second 
week  of  the  month,  the  storm  was  gone,  and  the  sun 
once  more  shone.  Early  in  the  afternoon  Laura  tele- 
phoned to  Mrs.  Cressler. 

“ How  are  you  and  Mr.  Cressler?  ” she  asked.  “ I’m 
coming  over  to  take  luncheon  with  you  and  your  hus- 
band, if  you  will  let  me.” 

“ Oh,  Charlie  is  about  the  same,  Laura,”  answered 
Mrs.  Cressler’s  voice.  “ I guess  the  dear  man  has  been 
working  too  hard,  that’s  all.  Do  come  over  and  cheer 
him  up.  If  I’m  not  here  when  you  come,  you  just  make 
yourself  at  home.  I’ve  got  to  go  down  town  to  see 
about  railroad  tickets  and  all.  I’m  going  to  pack  my 
old  man  right  off  to  Oconomowoc  before  I’m  another 
day  older.  Made  up  my  mind  to  it  last  night,  and  I 
don’t  want  him  to  be  bothered  with  tickets  or  time 
cards,  or  baggage  or  anything.  I’ll  run  down  and  do 
it  all  myself.  You  come  right  up  whenever  you’re 
ready  and  keep  Charlie  company.  How’s  your  hus- 
band, Laura  child?  ” 

“ Oh,  Curtis  is  well,”  she  answered.  “ He  gets  very 
tired  at  times.” 

“ Well,  I can  understand  it.  Lands  alive,  child, 
whatever  are  you  going  to  do  with  all  your  money? 
They  tell  me  that  J.  has  made  millions  in  the  last  three 
or  four  months.  A man  I was  talking  to  last  week  said 
his  corner  was  the  greatest  thing  ever  known  on  the 
Chicago  Board  of  Trade.  Well,  good-by,  Laura,  come 
up  whenever  you’re  ready.  I’ll  see  you  at  lunch. 
Charlie  is  right  here.  He  says  to  give  you  his  love.” 

An  hour  later  Laura’s  victoria  stopped  in  front  of  the 
Cresslers’  house,  and  the  little  footman  descended  with 


A Story  of  Cliicago  365 

! the  agility  of  a monkey,  to  stand,  soldier-like,  at  the 
steps,  the  lap  robe  over  his  arm. 

Laura  gave  orders  to  have  the  victoria  call  for  her 
at  three,  and  ran  quickly  up  the  front  steps.  The  front 
I entrance  was  open,  the  screen  door  on  the  latch,  and 
! she  entered  without  ceremony. 

“ Mrs.  Cresslerl  ” she  called,  as  she  stood  in  the  hall- 
way drawing  off  her  gloves.  “ Mrs.  Cressler!  Carrie, 
have  you  gone  yet?  ” 

But  the  maid,  Annie,  appeared  at  the  head  of  the 
j stairs,  on  the  landing  of  the  second  floor,  a towel  bound 
about  her  head,  her  duster  in  her  hand. 

“ Mrs.  Cressler  has  gone  out,  Mrs.  Jadwin,”  she  said. 
“ She  said  you  was  to  make  yourself  at  home,  and  she’d 
be  back  by  noon.” 

Laura  nodded,  and  standing  before  the  hatrack  in 
the  hall,  took  off  her  hat  and  gloves,  and  folded  her 
veil  into  her  purse.  The  house  was  old-fashioned,  very 
homelike  and  spacious,  cool,  with  broad  halls  and  wide 
I windows.  In  the  “ front  library,”  where  Laura  entered 
: first,  were  steel  engravings  of  the  style  of  the  seventies, 
i " whatnots  ” crowded  with  shells,  Chinese  coins,  lac- 
^ quer  boxes,  and  the  inevitable  sawfish  bill.  The  mantel 

[was  mottled  white  marble,  and  its  shelf  bore  the  usual 
bronze  and  gilt  clock,  decorated  by  a female  figure  in 
'1  classic  draperies,  reclining  against  a globe.  An  oil  paint- 
I ing  of  a mountain  landscape  hung  against  one  wall ; and 
'!  on  a table  of  black  walnut,  with  a red  marble  slab,  that 
; stood  between  the  front  windows,  were  a stereoscope 
^ and  a rosewood  music  box. 

I The  piano,  an  old  style  Chickering,  stood  diagonally 

I;  across  the  far  corner  of  the  room,  by  the  closed  sliding 
■ doors,  and  Laura  sat  down  here  and  began  to  play  the 
" Mephisto  Walzer,”  which  she  had  been  at  pains  to 
learn  since  the  night  Corthell  had  rendered  it  on  her 
I great  organ  in  the  art  gallery. 


366 


The  Pit 


But  when  she  had  played  as  much  as  she  could  re- 
member of  the  music,  she  rose  and  closed  the  piano, 
and  pushed  back  the  folding  doors  between  the  room 
she  was  in  and  the  “ back  library,”  a small  room  where 
Mrs.  Cressler  kept  her  books  of  poetry. 

As  Laura  entered  the  room  she  was  surprised  to  see 
Mr.  Cressler  there,  seated  in  his  armchair,  his  back 
turned  toward  her. 

“ Why,  I didn’t  know  you  were  here,  Mr.  Cressler,” 
she  said,  as  she  came  up  to  him. 

She  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm.  But  Cressler  was 
dead ; and  as  Laura  touched  him  the  head  dropped  upon 
the  shoulder  and  showed  the  bullet  hole  in  the  temple, 
just  in  front  of  the  ear. 


X 


The  suicide  of  Charles  Cressler  had  occurred  on  the 
tenth  of  June,  and  the  report  of  it,  together  with  the 
wretched  story  of  his  friend’s  final  surrender  to  a tempta- 
tion he  had  never  outlived,  reached  Curtis  Jadwin  early 
on  the  morning  of  the  eleventh. 

He  and  Gretry  were  at  their  accustomed  places  in  the 
latter’s  office,  and  the  news  seemed  to  shut  out  all  the  sun- 
shine that  had  been  flooding  in  through  the  broad  plate- 
glass  windows.  After  their  first  incoherent  horror,  the  two 
sat  staring  at  each  other,  speechless, 

“ My  God,  my  God,”  groaned  Jadwin,  as  if  in  the 
throes  of  a deadly  sickness.  “ He  was  in  the  Crookes’ 
ring,  and  we  never  knew  it — I’ve  killed  him,  Sam,  I 
might  as  well  have  held  that  pistol  myself.”  He  stamped 
his  foot,  striking  his  fist  across  his  forehead,  “ Great 
God — my  best  friend — Charlie — Charlie  Cressler!  Sam, 

I shall  go  mad  if  this — if  this ” 

“ Steady,  steady  does  it,  J,,”  warned  the  broker,  his 
hand  upon  his  shoulder,  “ we  got  to  keep  a grip  on  our- 
selves to-day.  We’ve  got  a lot  to  think  of.  We’ll  think 
about  Charlie,  later.  Just  now  . . . well  it’s  busi- 
ness now.  Mathewson  & Knight  have  called  on  us  for 
margins — twenty  thousand  dollars.” 

He  laid  the  slip  down  in  front  of  Jadwin,  as  he  sat  at 
his  desk, 

“ Oh,  this  can  wait,”  exclaimed  Jadwin.  “ Let  it  go 
till  this  afternoon,  I can’t  talk  business  now.  Think 

of  Carrie — Mrs.  Cressler,  I ” 

“ No,”  answered  Gretry,  reflectively  and  slowly, 
looking  anywhere  but  in  Jadwin’s  face.  “ N — no,  I don’t 


368 


The  Pit 


think  we’d  better  wait.  I think  we’d  better  meet  these 
margin  calls  promptly.  It’s  always  better  to  keep  our 
trades  margined  up.” 

Jadwin  faced  around. 

“ Why,”  he  cried,  “ one  would  think,  to  hear  you  talk, 
as  though  there  was  danger  of  me  busting  here  at  any 
hour.” 

Gretry  did  not  answer.  There  was  a moment’s  silence. 
Then  the  broker  caught  his  principal’s  eye  and  held  it  a 
second. 

“ Well,”  he  answered,  “ you  saw  how  freely  they  sold 
to  us  in  the  Pit  yesterday.  We’ve  got  to  buy,  and  buy 
and  buy,  to  keep  our  price  up ; and  look  here,  look  at  these 
reports  from  our  correspondents — everything  points  to  a 
banner  crop.  There’s  been  an  increase  of  acreage  every- 
where, because  of  our  high  prices.  See  this  from 
Travers” — he  picked  up  a despatch  and  read:  “‘Pre- 
liminary returns  of  spring  wheat  in  two  Dakotas,  sub- 
ject to  revision,  indicate  a total  area  seeded  of  sixteen 
million  acres,  which  added  to  area  in  winter  wheat  states, 
makes  total  of  forty-three  million,  or  nearly  four  million 
acres  greater  than  last  yea*r.’  ” 

“ Lot  of  damned  sentiment,”  cried  Jadwin,  refusing  to 
be  convinced.  “ Two-thirds  of  that  wheat  won’t  grade, 
and  Europe  will  take  nearly  all  of  it.  What  we  ought  to 
do  is  to  send  our  men  into  the  Pit  and  buy  another  million, 
buy  more  than  these  fools  can  offer.  Buy  ’em  to  a 
standstill” 

“ That  takes  a big  pile  of  money  then,”  said  the  broker. 
“ hlore  than  we  can  lay  our  hands  on  this  morning.  The 
best  we  can  do  is  to  take  all  the  Bears  are  offering,  and 
support  the  market.  The  moment  they  offer  us  wheat 
and  we  don’t  buy  it,  that  moment — as  you  know,  yourself 
— they’ll  throw  wheat  at  you  by  the  train  load,  and  the 
price  will  break,  and  we  with  it.” 


' A Story  of  Chicago  369 

“ Think  we’ll  get  rid  of  much  wheat  to-day  ?”  demanded 
Jadwin. 

I By  now  it  had  became  vitally  necessary  for  Jadwin 
to  sell  out  his  holdings.  His  “long  line”  was  a fearful 
i expense,  insurance  and  storage  charges  were  eating 
f rapidly  into  the  profits.  He  must  get  rid  of  the  load  he 
i was  carrying,  little  by  little.  To  do  this  at  a profit,  he  had 
adopted  the  expedient  of  flooding  the  Pit  with  buying 
orders  just  before  the  close  of  the  session,  and  then  as  the 
price  rose  under  this  stimulus,  selling  quickly,  before  it 
had  time  to  break.  At  first  this  had  succeeded.  But  of 
j late  he  must  buy  more  and  more  to  keep  the  price  up, 
while  the  moment  that  he  began  to  sell,  the  price  began  to 
i drop ; so  that  now,  in  order  to  sell  one  bushel,  he  must 
, buy  two. 

“ Think  we  can  unload  much  on  ’em  to-day?”  repeated 
[ Jadwin. 

“I  don’t  know,”  answered  Gretry,  slowly  and  thought- 
j fully.  “ Perhaps — there’s  a chance — . Frankly,  J.,  I 
don’t  think  we  can.  The  Pit  is  taking  heart,  that’s  the 
truth  of  it.  Those  fellows  are  not  so  scared  of  us  as  they 
I were  a while  ago.  It’s  the  new  crop,  as  I’ve  said  over  and 
over  again.  We’ve  put  wheat  so  high,  that  all  the  farmers 
I have  planted  it,  and  are  getting  ready  to  dump  it  on  us. 
i The  Pit  knows  that,  of  course.  Why,  just  think,  they  are 
j harvesting  in  some  places.  These  fellows  we’ve  caught 
in  the  corner  will  be  able  to  buy  all  the  wheat  they  want 
; from  the  farmers  if  they  can  hold  out  a little  longer. 

! And  that  Government  report  yesterday  showed  that  the 
' growing  wheat  is  in  good  condition.” 

I “ Nothing  of  the  sort.  It  was  a little  over  eighty-six.” 

! “ Good  enough,”  declared  Gretry,  “ good  enough  so 

that  it  broke  the  price  down  to  a dollar  and  twenty.  Just 
think,  we  were  at  a dollar  and  a half  a little  while  ago.” 

“ And  we’ll  be  at  two  dollars  in  another  ten  days,  I tell 
you.” 


24 


370 


The  Pit 


“ Do  you  know  how  we  stand  J.  ?”  said  the  broker 
gravely.  “ Do  you  know  how  we  stand — financially  ? It’s 
taken  pretty  nearly  every  cent  of  our  ready  money  to  sup- 
port this  July  market.  Oh,  we  can  figure  out  our  paper 
profits  into  the  millions.  We’ve  got  thirty,  forty,  fifty 
million  bushels  of  wheat  that’s  worth  over  a dollar  a 
bushel,  but  if  we  can’t  sell  it,  we’re  none  the  better  off — • 
and  that  wheat  is  costing  us  six  thousand  dollars  a day. 
Hell,  old  man,  where’s  the  money  going  to  come  from? 
You  don’t  seem  to  realise  that  we  are  in  a precarious 
condition.”  He  raised  an  arm,  and  pointed  above  him, 
in  the  direction  of  the  floor  of  the  Board  of  Trade. 

“ The  moment  we  can’t  give  our  boys — Landiy"  Court, 
and  the  rest  of  ’em — the  moment  we  can’t  give  them  buy- 
ing orders,  that  Pit  will  suck  us  down  like  a chip.  The 
moment  we  admit  that  we  can’t  buy  all  the  wheat  that’s 
offered,  there’s  the  moment  we  bust.” 

“ Well,  we’ll  buy  it,”  cried  Jadwin,  through  his  set  teeth. 

“ I’ll  show  those  brutes.  Look  here,  is  it  money  we 
want?  You  cable  to  Paris  and  offer  two  million,  at — oh, 
at  eight  cents  below  the  market;  and  to  Liverpool,  and 
let  ’em  have  twopence  off  on  the  same  amount.  They’ll 
snap  it  up  as  quick  as  look  at  it.  That  will  bring  in  one 
lot  of  money,  and  as  for  the  rest,  I guess  I’ve  got  some  | 
real  estate  in  this  town  that’t  pretty  good  security.”  * 

“ What — you  going  to  mortgage  part  of  that  ?”  I 

“ No,”  cried  Jadwin,  jumping  up  with  a quick  im-  < 
patient  gesture,  “ no,  I’m  going  to  mortgage  all  of  it,  and  j 
I’m  going  to  do  it  to-day — this  morning.  If  you  say  we’re  \ 
in  a precarious  condition,  it’s  no  time  for  half  measures. 
I’ll  have  more  money  than  you’ll  know  what  to  do  with  in  ' 
the  Illinois  Trust  by  three  o’clock  this  afternoon,  and  when 
the  Board  opens  to-morrow  morning.  I’m  going  to  light 
into  those  cattle  in  the  Pit  there,  so  as  they’ll  think  a 
locomotive  has  struck  ’em.  They’d  stand  me  off,  would 


A Story  of  Chicago 


371 


they?  They’d  try  to  sell  me  down ; they  won’t  cover  when 
I turn  the  screw ! I’ll  show  ’em,  Sam  Gretry.  I’ll  run 
wheat  up  so  high  before  the  next  two  days,  that  the 
‘ Bank  of  England  can’t  pull  it  down,  and  before  the  Pit 
i can  catch  its  breath.  I’ll  sell  our  long  line,  and  with  the 
profits  of  that,  by  God ! I’ll  run  it  up  again.  Two  dollars ! 
Why,  it  will  be  two  fifty  here  so  quick  you  won’t  know  how 
^ it’s  happened.  I’ve  just  been  fooling  with  this  crowd  until 
[ now.  Now,  I’m  really  going  to  get  down  to  business.” 

I Gretry  did  not  answer.  He  twirled  his  pencil  between 
: his  fingers,  and  stared  down  at  the  papers  on  his  desk, 
i Once  he  started  to  speak,  but  checked  himself.  Then  at 
last  he  turned  about. 

“ All  right,”  he  said,  briskly.  “ We’ll  see  what  that  will 
I do.” 

“ I’m  going  over  to  the  Illinois  Trust  now,”  said 
Jadwin,  putting  on  his  hat.  “ When  your  boys  come  in  for 
their  orders,  tell  them  for  to-day  just  to  support  the 
I market.  If  there’s  much  wheat  offered  they’d  better  buy 
it.  Tell  them  not  to  let  the  market  go  below  a dollar 
twenty.  When  I come  back  we’ll  make  out  those 
I cables.” 

That  day  Jadwin  carried  out  his  programme  so  vehe- 
i mently  announced  to  his  broker.  Upon  every  piece  of  real 
■ estate  that  he  owned  he  placed  as  heavy  a mortgage  as 
;|  the  property  would  stand.  Even  his  old  house  on 
; Michigan  Avenue,  even  the  “ homestead  ” on  North 
tj  State  Street  were  encumbered.  The  time  was  come,  he 
’!  felt,  for  the  grand  coup,  the  last  huge  strategical  move, 
5 the  concentration  of  every  piece  of  heavy  artillery. 

^ Never  in  all  his  multitude  of  operations  on  the  Chicago 
Board  of  Trade  had  he  failed.  He  knew  he  would  not 
j fail  now;  Luck,  the  golden  goddess,  still  staid  at  his 
i shoulder.  He  did  more  than  mortgage  his  property; 
! he  floated  a number  of  promissory  notes.  His  credit, 


372 


The  Pit 


always  unimpeachable,  he  taxed  to  its  farthest  stretch; 
from  every  source  he  gathered  in  the  sinews  of  the  war 
he  was  waging.  No  sum  was  too  great  to  daunt  him, 
none  too  small  to  be  overlooked.  Reserves,  van  and 
rear,  battle  line  and  skirmish  outposts  he  summoned 
together  to  form  one  single  vast  column  of  attack. 

It  was  on  this  same  day  while  Jadwin,  pressed  for 
money,  was  leaving  no  stone  unturned  to  secure  ready 
cash,  that  he  came  across  old  Hargus  in  his  usual  place  in 
Gretry’s  customers’  room,  reading  a two  days  old  news- 
paper. Of  a sudden  an  idea  occurred  to  Jadwin.  He  took 
the  old  man  aside.  “ Hargus,”  he  said,  “ do  you  want  a 
good  investment  for  your  money,  that  money  I turned  over 
to  you  ? I can  give  you  a better  rate  than  the  bank,  and 
pretty  good  security.  Let  me  have  about  a hundred  thou- 
sand at — oh,  ten  per  cent.” 

“ Hey — what  ?”  asked  the  old  fellow  querulously.  Jad- 
win repeated  his  request. 

But  Hargus  cast  a suspicious  glance  at  him  and  drew 
away. 

“ I — I don’t  lend  my  money,”  he  observed. 

“ Why — you  old  fool,”  exclaimed  Jadwin.  Here,  is 
it  more  interest  you  want?  Why,  we’ll  say  fifteen  per 
cent.,  if  you  like.” 

“ I don’t  lend  my  money,”  exclaimed  Hargus,  shaking 
his  head.  “ I ain’t  got  any  to  lend,”  and  with  the  words 
took  himself  off.” 

One  source  of  help  alone  Jadwin  left  untried.  Sorely 
tempted,  he  nevertheless  kept  himself  from  involving 
his  wife’s  money  in  the  hazard.  Laura,  in  her  own 
name,  was  possessed  of  a little  fortune;  sure  as  he  was 
of  winning,  Jadwin  none  the  less  hesitated  from  seek- 
ing an  auxiliary  here.  He  felt  it  was  a matter  of  pride. 
He  could  not  bring  himself  to  make  use  of  a woman’s 
succour. 


A Story  of  Chicago 


373 


But  his  entire  personal  fortune  now  swung  in  the 
balance.  It  was  the  last  fight,  the  supreme  attempt — the 
I final  consummate  assault,  and  the  thrill  of  a victory  more 
brilliant,  more  conclusive,  more  decisive  than  any  he  had 
I ever  known,  vibrated  in  Jadwin’s  breast,  as  he  went  to  and 
fro  in  Jackson,  Adams,  and  La  Salle  streets  all  through 
j that  day  of  the  eleventh. 

But  he  knew  the  danger — knew  just  how  terrible  was  to 
be  the  grapple.  Once  that  same  day  a certain  detail  of 
I business  took  him  near  to  the  entrance  of  the  Floor. 
Though  he  did  not  so  much  as  look  inside  the  doors,  he 
could  not  but  hear  the  thunder  of  the  Pit ; and  even  in  that 
moment  of  confidence,  his  great  triumph  only  a few  hours 
distant,  Jadwin,  for  the  instant,  stood  daunted.  The  roar 
was  appalling,  the  whirlpool  was  again  unchained,  the 
' maelstrom  was  again  unleashed.  And  during  the  briefest 
of  seconds  he  could  fancy  that  the  familiar  bellow  of  its 
swirling,  had  taken  on  another  pitch.  Out  of  that  hideous 
turmoil,  he  imagined,  there  issued  a strange  unwonted  note ; 
as  it  were,  the  first  rasp  and  grind  of  a new  avalanche 
just  beginning  to  stir,  a diapason  more  profound  than 
any  he  had  yet  known,  a hollow  distant  bourdon  as  of 
the  slipping  and  sliding  of  some  almighty  and  chaotic 
power. 

It  was  the  Wheat,  the  Wheat ! It  was  on  the  move 
again.  From  the  farms  of  Illinois  and  Iowa,  from  the 
ranches  of  Kansas  and  Nebraska,  from  all  the  reaches 
of  the  Middle  West,  the  Wheat,  like  a tidal  wave,  was 
rising,  rising.  Almighty,  blood-brother  to  the  earth- 
quake, coeval  with  the  volcano  and  the  whirlwind,  that 
gigantic  world-force,  that  colossal  billow,  Nourisher  of 
the  Nations,  was  swelling  and  advancing. 

There  in  the  Pit  Its  first  premonitory  eddies  already 
swirled  and  spun.  If  even  the  first  ripples  of  the  tide 
smote  terribly  upon  the  heart,  what  was  it  to  be  when 


374 


The  Pit 


the  ocean  itself  burst  through,  on  its  eternal  way  from 
west  to  east?  For  an  instant  came  clear  vision.  What 
were  these  shouting,  gesticulating  men  of  the  Board 
of  Trade,  these  brokers,  traders,  and  speculators?  It 
was  not  these  he  fought,  it  was  that  fatal  New  Harvest; 
it  was  the  Wheat ; it  was — as  Gretry  had  said-^the  very 
Earth  itself.  What  were  those  scattered  hundreds  of 
farmers  of  the  Middle  W est,  who  because  he  had  put  the 
price  so  high  had  planted  the  grain  as  never  before? 
What  had  they  to  do  with  it?  Why  the  Wheat  had 
grown  itself;  demand  and  supply,  these  were  the  two 
great  laws  the  Wheat  obeyed.  Almost  blasphemous 
in  his  effrontery,  he  had  tampered  with  these  laws, 
and  had  roused  a Titan.  He  had  laid  his  puny  human 
grasp  upon  Creation  and  the  very  earth  herself,  the 
great  mother,  feeling  the  touch  of  the  cobweb  that 
the  human  insect  had  spun,  had  stirred  at  last  in  her 
sleep  and  sent  her  omnipotence  moving  through  the 
grooves  of  the  world,  to  find  and  crush  the  disturber  of  her 
appointed  courses'TX 

The  new  harvest  was  coming  in ; the  new  harvest  of 
wheat,  huge  beyond  possibility  of  control;  so  vast  that 
no  money  could  buy  it,  so  swift  that  no  strateg}'  could 
turn  it.  But  Jadwin  hurried  away  from  the  sound  of  the 
near  roaring  of  the  Pit.  No,  no.  Luck  was  with  him ; 
he  had  mastered  the  current  of  the  Pit  many  times  be- 
fore— he  would  master  it  again.  The  day  passed  and 
the  night,  and  at  nine  o’clock  the  following  morning,  he 
and  Gretry  once  more  met  in  the  broker’s  office. 

Gretry  turned  a pale  face  upon  his  principal. 

“ I’ve  just  received,”  he  said,  “ the  answers  to  our  cables 
to  Liverpool  and  Paris.  I offered  wheat  at  both  places,  as 
you  know,  cheaper  than  we’ve  ever  offered  it  there 
before,” 


A Story  of  Chicago 


375 


“ Yes— well?” 

“ Well,”  answered  Gretry,  looking  gravely  into  Jad— 
win’s  eyes,  “ well — they  won’t  take  it.” 

On  the  morning  of  her  birthday — the  thirteenth  of  the 
month — when  Laura  descended  to  the  breakfast  room, 
she  found  Page  already  there.  Though  it  was  barely 
half-past  seven,  her  sister  was  dressed  for  the  street. 
She  wore  a smart  red  hat,  and  as  she  stood  by  the 
French  windows,  looking  out,  she  drew  her  gloves  back 
and  forth  between  her  fingers,  with  a nervous,  impatient 
gesture. 

“ Why,”  said  Laura,  as  she  sat  down  at  her  place, 

“ why,  Pagie,  what  is  in  the  wind  to-day  ?” 

“ Landry  is  coming,”  Page  explained,  facing  about  and 
glancing  at  the  watch  pinned  to  her  waist.  “ He  is  going 
to  take  me  down  to  see  the  Board  of  Trade — from  the 
visitor’s  gallery,  you  know.  He  said  this  would  probably 
be  a great  day.  Did  Mr.  Jadwin  come  home  last  night?” 

Laura  shook  her  head,  without  speech.  She  did  not 
choose  to  put  into  words  the  fact  that  for  three  days — 
with  the  exception  of  an  hour  or  two,  on  the  evening 
after  that  horrible  day  of  her  visit  to  the  Cresslers’ 
house — she  had  seen  nothing  of  her  husband. 

“ Landry  says,”  continued  Page,  “ that  it  is  awful — 
down  there,  these  days.  He  says  that  it  is  the  greatest 
fight  in  the  history  of  La  Salle  Street.  Has  Mr.  Jadwin, 
said  anything  to  you  ? Is  he  going  to  win  ?” 

“ I don’t  know,”  answered  Laura,  in  a low  voice ; “ I 
don’t  know  anything  about  it.  Page.” 

She  was  wondering  if  even  Page  had  forgotten.  When 
she  had  come  into  the  room,  her  first  glance  had  been 
towards  her  place  at  table.  But  there  was  nothing  there, 
not  even  so  much  as  an  envelope;  and  no  one  had  so 
much  as  wished  her  joy  of  the  little  anniversary.  She  had 


376 


The  Pit 


thought  Page  might  have  remembered,  but  her  sister’s 
next  words  showed  that  she  had  more  on  her  mind  than 
birthdays. 

“ Laura,”  she  began,  sitting  down  opposite  to  her,  and 
unfolding  her  napkin,  with  laborious  precision.  “ Laura — ■ 
Landry  and  I — Well  . . . we’re  going  to  be  mar- 
ried in  the  fall.” 

“ Why,  Pagie,”  cried  Laura,  “ I’m  just  as  glad  as  I j 
can  be  for  you.  He’s  a fine,  clean  fellow,  and  I know  he 
will  make  you  a good  husband.” 

Page  drew  a deep  breath. 

“ Well,”  she  said,  “ I’m  glad  you  think  so,  too.  Before 
you  and  Mr.  Jadwin  were  married,  I wasn’t  sure  about 
having  him  care  for  me,  because  at  that  time — well — ” 
Page  looked  up  with  a queer  little  smile,  “ I guess  you 
could  have  had  him — if  you  had  wanted  to.” 

“ Oh,  that,”  cried  Laura.  “ Why,  Landry  never  really 
cared  for  me.  It  was  all  the  silliest  kind  of  flirtation. 
The  moment  he  knew  you  better,  I stood  no  chance  at 
all.” 

“ We’re  going  to  take  an  apartment  on  IMichigan 
Avenue,  near  the  Auditorium,”  said  Page,  “ and  keep 
house.  We’ve  talked  it  all  over,  and  know  just  how 
much  it  will  cost  to  live  and  keep  one  serv^ant.  I’m  going 
to  serve  the  loveliest  little  dinners ; I’ve  learned  the  kind 
of  cooking  he  likes  already.  Oh,  I guess  there  he  is  now,” 
she  cried,  as  they  heard  the  front  door  close. 

Landry  came  in,  carrying  a great  bunch  of  cut  flowers, 
and  a box  of  candy.  He  was  as  spruce  as  though  he 
were  already  the  bridegroom,  his  cheeks  pink,  his  blonde 
hair  radiant.  But  he  was  thin  and  a little  worn,  a dull 
feverish  glitter  came  and  went  in  his  eyes,  and  his  ner\'-  i 
ousness,  the  strain  and  excitement  which  beset  him  were  ■ 
in  his  every  gesture,  in  every  word  of  his  rapid  speech. 

“ We’ll  have  to  hurry,”  he  told  Page.  “ I must  be  down  ; 
there  hours  ahead  of  time  this  morning.”  ' 


377 


A Story  of  Chicago 

“ How  is  Curtis?  ” demanded  Laura.  “Have  you  seen 
him  lately?  How  is  he  getting  on  with — with  his  specu- 
lating ?” 

Landry  made  a sharp  gesture  of  resignation. 

“ I don’t  know,”  he  answered.  “ I guess  nobody  knows. 
We  had  a fearful  day  yesterday,  but  I think  we  controlled 
the  situation  at  the  end.  We  ran  the  price  up  and  up  and 
up  till  I thought  it  would  never  stop.  If  the  Pit  thought 
Mr.  Jadwin  was  beaten,  I guess  they  found  out  how  they 
were  mistaken.  For  a time  there,  we  were  just  driving 
them.  But  then  Mr.  Gretry  sent  word  to  us  in  the  Pit 
to  sell,  and  we  couldn’t  hold  them.  They  came  back  at  us 
like  wolves;  they  beat  the  price  down  five  cents,  in  as 
many  minutes.  We  had  to  quit  selling,  and  buy  again. 
But  then  Mr.  Jadwin  went  at  them  with  a rush.  Oh,  it 
was  grand  ! We  steadied  the  price  at  a dollar  and  fif- 
teen, stiffened  it  up  to  eighteen  and  a half,  and  then  sent 
it  up  again,  three  cents  at  a time,  till  we’d  hammered  it 
back  to  a dollar  and  a quarter.” 

“ But  Curtis  himself,”  inquired  Laura,  “ is  he  all 
right,  is  he  well  ?” 

“ I only  saw  him  once,”  answered  Landry.  “ He  was 
in  Mr.  Gretry’s  office.  Yes,  he  looked  all  right.  He’s 
nervous,  of  course.  But  Mr.  Gretry  looks  like  the  sick 
man.  He  looks  all  frazzled  out.” 

“ I guess,  we’d  better  be  going,”  said  Page,  getting  up 
from  the  table.  “ Have  you  had  your  breakfast,  Landry  ? 
Won’t  you  have  some  coffee?” 

“ Oh,  I breakfasted  hours  ago,”  he  answered.  “ But 
you  are  right.  We  had  better  be  moving.  If  you  are 
going  to  get  a seat  in  the  gallery,  you  must  be  there  half 
an  hour  ahead  of  time,  to  say  the  least.  Shall  I take  any 
word  to  your  husband  from  you,  Mrs.  Jadwin?” 

“ Tell  him  that  I wish  him  good  luck,”  she  answered, 
“and — ^yes,  ask  him,  if  he  remembers  what  day  of  the 


378 


The  Pit 


month  this  is — or  no,  don’t  ask  him  that.  Say  nothing 
about  it.  Just  tell  him  I send  him  my  very  best  love,  and 
that  I wish  him  all  the  success  in  the  world.” 

It  was  about  nine  o’clock,  when  Landry  and  Page 
reached  the  foot  of  La  Salle  Street.  The  morning  was 
fine  and  cool.  The  sky  over  the  Board  of  Trade  sparkled 
with  sunlight,  and  the  air  was  full  of  fluttering  wings  of 
the  multitude  of  pigeons  that  lived  upon  the  leakage  of 
grain  around  the  Board  of  Trade  building. 

“ Mr.  Cressler  used  to  feed  them  regularly,”  said  Lan- 
dry, as  they  paused  on  the  street  corner  opposite  the 
Board.  “ Poor — poor  Mr.  Cressler — the  funeral  is  to- 
morrow, you  know.” 

Page  shut  her  eyes. 

“ Oh,”  she  murmure4,  “ think,  think  of  Laura  finding 
him  there  like  that.  Oh,  it  would  have  killed  me,  it 
would  have  killed  me.” 

“ Somehow,”  observed  Landry',  a puzzled  expression 
in  his  eyes,  “ somehow,  by  George ! she  don’t  seem  to  mind 
very  much.  You’d  have  thought  a shock  like  that  would 
have  made  her  sick.” 

“ Oh ! Laura,”  cried  Page.  “ I don’t  know  her  any 
more  these  days,  she  is  just  like  stone — just  as  though  she 
were  crowding  down  every  emotion  or  any'  feeling  she 
ever  had.  She  seems  to  be  holding  herself  in  with  all  her 
strength — for  something — and  afraid  to  let  go  a finger,  for 
fear  she  would  give  way  altogether.  When  she  told  me 
about  that  morning  at  the  Cresslers’  house,  her  voice  was 
just  like  ice;  she  said,  ‘ IMr.  Cressler  has  shot  himself.  I 
found  him  dead  in  his  librar}'.’  She  never  shed  a tear,  and 
she  spoke,  oh,  in  such  a terrible  monotone.  Oh ! dear,”  ! 
cried  Page,  “ I wish  all  this  was  over,  and  we  could  all  1 
get  away  from  Chicago,  and  take  IMr.  Jadwin  with  us, 
and  get  him  back  to  be  as  he  used  to  be,  always  so  light- 
hearted, and  thoughtful  and  kindly.  He  used  to  be  mak- 


A Story  of  Chicago  379 

ing  jokes  from  morning  till  ntght.  Oh,  I loved  him  just 
as  if  he  were  my  father.” 

They  crossed  the  street,  and  Landry,  taking  her  by  the 
arm,  ushered  her  into  the  corridor  on  the  ground  floor 
of  the  Board. 

“ Now,  keep  close  to  me,”  he  said,  “ and  see  if  we 
can  get  through  somewhere  here.” 

The  stairs  leading  up  to  the  main  floor  were  already 
crowded  with  visitors,  some  standing  in  line  close  to  the 
wall,  others  aimlessly  wandering  up  and  down,  looking 
and  listening,  their  heads  in  the  air.  One  of  these,  a 
gentleman  with  a tall  white  hat,  shook  his  head  at  Landry 
and  Page,  as  they  pressed  by  him. 

“ You  can’t  get  up  there,”  he  said,  “ even  if  they  let  you 
in.  They’re  packed  in  like  sardines  already.” 

But  Landry  reassured  Page  with  a knowing  nod  of  his 
head. 

“ I told  the  guide  up  in  the  gallery  to  reserve  a seat 
for  you.  I guess  we’ll  manage.” 

But  when  they  reached  the  staircase  that  connected  the 
main  floor  with  the  visitors’  gallery,  it  became  a question 
as  to  whether  or  not  they  could  even  get  to  the  seat.  The 
crowd  was  packed  solidly  upon  the  stairs,  between  the  wall 
and  the  balustrades.  There  were  men  in  top  hats,  and 
women  in  silks;  rough  fellows  of  the  poorer  streets,  and 
gaudily  dressed  queens  of  obscure  neighborhoods,  while 
mixed  with  these  one  saw  the  faded  and  shabby  wrecks 
that  perennially  drifted  about  the  Board  of  Trade,  the 
failures  who  sat  on  the  chairs  of  the  customers’  rooms 
day  in  and  day  out,  reading  old  newspapers,  smoking 
vile  cigars.  And  there  were  young  men  of  the  type  of 
clerks  and  bookkeepers,  young  men  with  drawn,  worn 
faces,  and  hot,  tired  eyes,  who  pressed  upward,  silent, 
their  lips  compressed,  listening  intently  to  the  indefinite 
echoing  murmur  that  was  filling  the  building. 


380 


The  Pit 


For  on  this  morning  of  the  thirteenth  of  June,  the 
Board  of  Trade,  its  halls,  corridors,  offices,  and  stairways 
were  already  thrilling  with  a vague  and  terrible  sound.  It 
was  only  a little  after  nine  o’clock.  The  trading  would 
not  begin  for  another  half  hour,  but,  even  now,  the  mutter 
of  the  whirlpool,  the  growl  of  the  Pit  was  making  itself 
felt.  The  eddies  were  gathering;  the  thousands  of  sub- 
sidiary torrents  that  fed  the  cloaca  were  moving.  From 
all  over  the  immediate  neighborhood  they  came,  from  the 
offices  of  hundreds  of  commission  houses,  from  brokers’ 
offices,  from  banks,  from  the  tall,  grey  buildings  of  La 
Salle  Street,  from  the  street  itself.  And  even  from 
greater  distances  they  came;  auxiliary  currents  set  in  I 
from  all  the  reach  of  the  Great  Northwest,  from  Minne- 
apolis, Duluth,  and  Milwaukee.  From  the  Southwest, 

St.  Louis,  Omaha,  and  Kansas  City  contributed  to  the 
volume.  The  Atlantic  Seaboard,  New  York,  and  Bos- 
ton and  Philadelphia  sent  out  their  tributary  streams; 
London,  Liverpool,  Paris,  and  Odessa  merged  their  in- 
fluences with  the  vast  world-wide  flowing  that  bore 
down  upon  Chicago,  and  that  now  began  slowly,  slowly 
to  centre  and  circle  about  the  Wheat  Pit  of  the  Board 
of  Trade. 

Small  wonder  that  the  building  to  Page’s  ears  vibrated 
to  a strange  and  ominous  humming.  She  heard  it  in  the 
distant  clicking  of  telegraph  keys,  in  the  echo  of  hurried 
whispered  conversations  held  in  dark  corners,  in  the 
noise  of  rapid  footsteps,  in  the  trilling  of  telephone  bells. 
These  sounds  came  from  all  around  her;  they  issued 
from  the  offices  of  the  building  below  her,  above  her  and 
on  either  side.  She  was  surrounded  with  them,  and  they 
mingled  together  to  form  one  prolonged  and  muffled 
roar,  that  from  moment  to  moment  increased  in  volume. 

The  Pit  was  getting  under  way;  the  whirlpool  was 
forming,  and  the  sound  of  its  courses  was  like  the  sound 
of  the  - ocean  in  stonn^  heard  at  a distance. 


A Story  of  Chicago 


381 


Page  and  Landry  were  still  halfway  up  the  last  stair- 
way. Above  and  below,  the  throng  was  packed  dense  and 
immobilised.  But,  little  by  little,  Landry  wormed  a way 
for  them,  winning  one  step  at  a time^  But  he  was  very 
anxious ; again  and  again  he  looked  at  his  watch.  At  last 
he  said: 

“ I’ve  got  to  go.  It's  Just  madness  for  me  to  stay  an- 
other minute.  I’ll  give  you  my  card.” 

“ Well,  leave  me  here,”  Page  urged.  “ It  can’t  be 
helped.  I’m  all  right.  Give  me  your  card.  I’ll  tell  the 
guide  in  the  gallery  that  you  kept  the  seat  for  me — if  I 
ever  can  get  there.  You  must  go.  Don’t  stay  another 
minute.  If  you  can,  come  for  me  here  in  the  gallery, 
when  it’s  over.  I’ll  wait  for  you.  But  if  you  can’t  come, 
all  right.  I can  take  care  of  myself.” 

He  could  but  assent  to  this.  This  was  no  time  to  think 
of  small  things.  He  left  her  and  bore  back  with  all  his 
might  through  the  crowd,  gained  the  landing  at  the  turn 
of  the  balustrade,  waved  his  hat  to  her  and  disappeared. 

A quarter  of  an  hour  went  by.  Page,  caught  in  the 
crowd,  could  neither  advance  nor  retreat.  Ahead  of  her, 
some  twenty  steps  away,  she  could  see  the  back  rows  of 
seats  in  the  gallery.  But  they  were  already  occupied.  It 
seemed  hopeless  to  expect  to  see  anything  of  the  floor 
that  day.  But  she  could  no  longer  extricate  herself  from 
the  press;  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  stay  where  she 
was. 

On  every  side  of  her  she  caught  odds  and  ends  of 
dialogues  and  scraps  of  discussions,  and  while  she  waited 
she  found  an  interest  in  listening  to  these,  as  they  reached 
her  from  time  to  time. 

“Well,”  observed  the  man  in  the  tall  white  hat,  who 
had  discouraged  Landry  from  attempting  to  reach  the 
gallery,  “ well,  he’s  shaken  ’em  up  pretty  well.  Whether 
he  downs  ’em  or  they  down  him,  he’s  made  a good  fight.” 


382 


The  Pit 


His  companion,  a young  man  with  eyeglasses,  who 
wore  a wonderful  white  waistcoat  with  queer  glass  but- 
tons, assented,  and  Page  heard  him  add ; 

“ Big  operator,  that  Jadwin.” 

“ They’re  doing  for  him  now,  though.” 

“ I ain’t  so  sure.  He’s  got  another  fight  in  him.  You’ll 
see. 

“ Ever  see  him?  ” 

“ No,  no,  he  don’t  come  into  the  Pit — these  big  men 
never  do.” 

Directly  in  front  of  Page  two  women  kept  up  an  in- 
terminable discourse. 

“ Well,”  said  the  one,  “ that’s  all  very  well,  but  iMr. 
Jadwin  made  my  sister-in-law — she  lives  in  Dubuque,  you 
know — a rich  woman.  She  bought  some  wheat,  just  for 
fun,  you  know,  a long  time  ago,  and  held  on  till  IMr.  Jad- 
win put  the  price  up  to  four  times  what  she  paid  for  it. 
Then  she  sold  out.  My,  you  ought  to  see  the  lovely 
house  she’s  building,  and  her  son’s  gone  to  Europe,  to 
study  art,  if  you  please,  and  a year  ago,  my  dear,  they 
didn’t  have  a cent,  not  a cent,  but  her  husband’s  salary.” 

“ There’s  the  other  side,  too,  though,”  answered  her 
companion,  adding  in  a hoarse  whisper : “ If  Mr.  Jadwin 
fails  to-day — well,  honestly,  Julia,  I don’t  know  what 
Philip  will  do.” 

But,  from  another  group  at  Page’s  elbow,  a man’s  bass 
voice  cut  across  the  subdued  chatter  of  the  two  women. 

“ ’Guess  we’ll  pull  through,  somehow.  Burbank  & 
Co.,  though — by  George ! I’m  not  sure  about  them. 
They  are  pretty  well  involved  in  this  thing,  and  there’s 
two  or  three  smaller  firms  that  are  dependent  on  them. 
If  Gretry-Converse  & Co.  should  suspend,  Burbank 
would  go  with  a crash  sure.  And  there’s  tliat  bank 
in  Keokuk ; they  can’t  stand  much  more.  Their  depositors 
would  run  ’em  quick  as  how-do-you-do,  if  there  was  a 
smash  here  in  Chicago.” 


383 


A Story  of  Chicago 

“ Oh,  Jadwin  will  pull  through.” 

" Well,  I hope  so — by  Jingo ! I hope  so.  Say,  by  the 
way,  how  did  you  come  out?” 

“ Me ! Hoh ! Say  my  boy,  the  next  time  I get  into 
a wheat  trade  you’ll  know  it.  I was  one  of  the  merry 
paretics  who  believed  that  Crookes  was  the  Great  Lum- 
tum.  I tailed  on  to  his  clique.  Lord  love  you ! Jadwin 
put  the  knife  into  me  to  the  tune  of  twelve  thousand 
dollars.  But,  say,  look  here ; aren’t  we  ever  going  to  get 
up  to  that  blame  gallery?  We  ain’t  going  to  see  any  of 
this,  and  I — hark! — by  God!  there  goes  the  gong.  They’ve 
begun.  Say,  say,  hear  'em,  will  you  ! Holy  Moses ! say 
— listen  to  that!  Did  you  ever  hear — Lord!  I wish  we 
could  see — could  get  somewhere  where  we  could  see 
something.” 

His  friend  turned  to  him  and  spoke  a sentence  that  was 
drowned  in  the  sudden  vast  volume  of  sound  that  all  at 
once  shook  the  building. 

“ Hey — what  ?” 

The  other  shouted  into  his  ear.  But  even  then  his 
friend  could  not  hear.  Nor  did  he  listen.  The  crowd 
upon  the  staircases  had  surged  irresistibly  forward  and 
upward.  There  was  a sudden  outburst  of  cries.  Women’s 
voices  were  raised  in  expostulation,  and  even  fear. 

" Oh,  oh — don’t  push  so !” 

“ My  arm ! oh ! — oh,  I shall  faint  . . „ please.” 

But  the  men,  their  escorts,  held  back  furiously ; their 
faces  purple,  they  shouted  imprecations  over  their 
shoulders. 

“Here,  here,  you  damn  fools,  what  you  doing?” 

“ Don’t  crowd  so !” 

“ Get  back,  back!” 

“ There’s  a lady  fainted  here.  Get  back  you ! We’ll  all 
have  a chance  to  see.  Good  Lord ! ain’t  there  a police- 
man anywheres  ? ” 


384 


The  Pit 


“ Say,  say ! It’s  going  down — the  price.  It  broke  three 
cents,  just  then,  at  the  opening,  they  say.” 

“ This  is  the  worst  I ever  saw  or  heard  of.” 

“ My  God ! if  Jadwin  can  only  hold  ’em. 

“ You  bet  he’ll  hold  ’em.” 

“ Hold  nothing! — Oh!  say  my  friend,  it  don’t  do  you 
any  good  to  crov/d  like  that.” 

“ It’s  the  people  behind:  I’m  not  doing  it.  Say,  do  you 
know  where  they’re  at  on  the  floor?  The  wheat,  I mean, 
is  it  going  up  or  down?” 

“ Up,  they  tell  me.  There  was  a rally ; I don’t  know. 
How  can  we  tell  here?  We — Hi!  there  they  go  again. 
Lord ! that  must  have  been  a smash.  I guess  the  Board 
of  Trade  won’t  forget  this  day  in  a hurry.  Heavens,  you 
can’t  hear  yourself  think! 

“ Glad  I ain’t  down  there  in  the  Pit.” 

But,  at  last,  a group  of  policemen  appeared.  By  main 
strength  they  shouldered  their  way  to  the  top  of  the  stairs, 
and  then  began  pushing  the  crowd  back.  At  every  instant 
they  shouted : 

“ Move  on  now,  clear  the  stairway.  No  seats  left !” 

But  at  this  Page,  who,  by  the  rush  of  the  crowd  had  been 
carried  almost  to  the  top  of  the  stairs,  managed  to  extri- 
cate an  arm  from  the  press,  and  hold  Landry’s  card  in 
the  air.  She  even  hazarded  a little  deception : 

“ I have  a pass.  Will  you  let  me  through,  please  ?” 

Luckily  one  of  the  officers  heard  her.  He  bore  dowm 
heavily  with  all  the  mass  of  his  two  hundred  pounds  and 
the  majesty  of  the  law  he  represented,  to  the  rescue  and 
succour  of  this  very  pretty  girl. 

“ Let  the  lady  through,”  he  roared,  forcing  a passage 
with  both  elbows.  “ Come  right  along,  Miss.  Stand  back 
you,  now.  Can’t  you  see  the  lady  has  a pass  ? Now  then, 
]\Iiss,  and  be  quick  about  it,  I can’t  keep  ’em  back  forever.” 

Jostled  and  hustled,  her  dress  crumpled,  her  hat  awry, 


3^5 


A Story  of  Chicago 

Page  made  her  way  forward,  till  the  officer  caught  her 
by  the  arm,  and  pulled  her  out  of  the  press.  With  a long 
breath  she  gained  the  landing  of  the  gallery. 

The  guide,  an  old  fellow  in  a uniform  of  blue,  with  brass 
buttons  and  a visored  cap,  stood  near  by,  and  to  him  she 
presented  Landry’s  card. 

“ Oh,  yes,  oh,  yes,”  he  shouted  in  her  ear,  after  he  had 
glanced  it  over.  “ You  were  the  party  Mr.  Court  spoke 
about.  You  just  came  in  time.  I wouldn’t  ’a  dared  hold 
your  seat  a minute  longer.” 

He  led  her  down  the  crowded  aisle  between  rows  of 
theatre  chairs,  all  of  which  were  occupied,  to  one  vacant 
seat  in  the  very  front  row. 

“ You  can  see  everything,  now,”  he  cried,  making  a 
trumpet  of  his  palm.  “ You’re  Mister  Jadwin’s  niece.  I 
know,  I know.  Ah,  it’s  a wild  day,  Miss.  They  ain’t 
done  much  yet,  and  Mr.  Jadwin’s  holding  his  own,  just 
now.  But  I thought  for  a moment  they  had  him  on  the 
run.  You  see  that — my,  my,  there  was  a sharp  rally. 
But  he’s  holding  on  strong  yet.” 

Page  took  her  seat,  and  leaning  forward  looked  down 
into  the  Wheat  Pit. 

Once  free  of  the  crowd  after  leaving  Page,  Landry  ran 
with  all  the  swiftness  of  his  long  legs  down  the  stair, 
and  through  the  corridors  till,  all  out  of  breath,  he  gained 
Gretry’s  private  office.  The  other  Pit  traders  for  the 
house,  some  eight  or  ten  men,  were  already  assembled,  and 
just  as  Landry  entered  by  one  door,  the  broker  himself 
came  in  from  the  customers’  room.  Jadwin  was  no- 
where to  be  seen. 

“ What  are  the  orders  for  to-day,  sir?” 

Gretry  was  very  pale.  Despite  his  long  experience  on 
the  Board  of  Trade,  Landry  could  see  anxiety  in  every 
change  of  his  expression,  in  every  motion  of  his  hands. 
The  broker  before  answering  the  question  crossed  the 
25 


386 


The  Pit 


room  to  the  water  cooler  and  drank  a brief  swallow. 
Then  emptying  the  glass  he  refilled  it,  moistened  his  lips 
again,  and  again  emptied  and  filled  the  goblet.  He  put 
it  down,  caught  it  up  once  more,  filled  it,  emptied  it,  drink- 
ing now  in  long  draughts,  now  in  little  sips.  He  was  quite 
unconscious  of  his  actions,  and  Landry  as  he  watched, 
felt  his  heart  sink.  Things  must,  indeed,  be  at  a desperate 
pass  when  Gretry,  the  calm,  the  clear-headed,  the  placid, 
was  thus  upset. 

“ Your  orders?”  said  the  broker,  at  last.  “ The  same  as 
yesterday ; keep  the  market  up — that’s  all.  It  must  not 
go  below  a dollar  fifteen.  But  act  on  the  defensive. 
Don’t  be  aggressive,  unless  I send  word.  There  will 
probably  be  very  heavy  selling  the  first  few  moments. 
You  can  buy,  each  of  you,  up  to  half  a million  bushels 
apiece.  If  that  don’t  keep  the  price  up,  if  they  still  are 
selling  after  that  . . . well  ” ; Gretry  paused  a 

moment,  irresolutely,  “ well,”  he  added  suddenly,  “ if 
they  are  still  selling  freely  after  you’ve  each  bought  half 
a million.  I’ll  let  you  know  what  to  do.  And,  look 
here,”  he  continued,  facing  the  group,  “ look  here — keep 
your  heads  cool  ...  I guess  to-day  will  decide 
things.  Watch  the  Crookes  crowd  pretty  closely.  I 
understand  they’re  up  to  something  again.  That’s  all,  I 
guess.” 

Landry  and  the  other  Gretry  traders  hurried  from  the 
office  up  to  the  floor.  Landry’s  heart  was  beating  thick 
and  slow  and  hard,  his  teeth  were  shut  tight.  Every 
nerve,  every  fibre  of  him  braced  itself  with  the  rigidity 
of  drawn  wire,  to  meet  the  issue  of  the  impending  hours. 
Now,  was  to  coime  the  last  grapple.  He  had  never  lived 
through  a crisis  such  as  this  before.  Would  he  prevail, 
would  he  keep  his  head?  Would  he  avoid  or  balk  the 
thousand  and  one  little  subterfuges,  tricks,  and  traps  that 
the  hostile  traders  would  prepare  for  him — prepare  with 


A Story  of  Chicago  387 

a quickness,  a suddenness  that  all  but  defied  the  sharpest, 

' keenest  watchfulness  ? 

Was  the  gong  never  going  to  strike?  He  found  him- 
self, all  at  once,  on  the  edge  of  the  Wheat  Pit.  It  was 
, jammed  tight  with  the  crowd  of  traders  and  the  excite- 
: ment  that  disengaged  itself  from  that  tense,  vehement 
1 crowd  of  white  faces  and  glittering  eyes  was  veritably 
sickening,  veritably  weakening.  Men  on  either  side  of 
him  were  shouting  mere  incoherencies,  to  which  nobody, 

I not  even  themselves,  were  listening.  Others  silent, 
; gnawed  their  nails  to  the  quick,  breathing  rapidly,  aud- 
' ibly  even,  their  nostrils  expanding  and  contracting. 
, All  around  roared  the  vague  thunder  that  since  early 
• morning  had  shaken  the  building.  In  the  Pit  the  bids 
leaped  to  and  fro,  though  the  time  of  opening  had  not 
I yet  come;  the  very  planks  under  foot  seemed  spinning 
I about  in  the  first  huge  warning  swirl  of  the  Pit’s  centrip- 
etal convulsion.  There  was  dizziness  in  the  air.  Some- 
! thing,  some  infinite  immeasurable  power,  onrushing  in 
■ its  eternal  courses,  shook  the  Pit  in  its  grasp.  Some- 
thing deafened  the  ears,  blinded  the  eyes,  dulled  and 
numbed  the  mind,  with  its  roar,  with  the  chaff  and  dust 
I of  its  whirlwind  passage,  with  the  stupefying  sense  of  its 
I power,  coeval  with  the  earthquake  and  glacier,  merci- 
; less,  all-powerful,  a primal  basic  throe  of  creation  Itself, 
unassailable,  inviolate,  and  untamed. 

Had  the  trading  begun  ? Had  the  gong  struck  ? Landry 
never  knew,  never  so  much  as  heard  the  clang  of  the 
great  bell.  All  at  once  he  was  fighting ; all  at  once  he  was 
caught,  as  it  were,  from  off  the  stable  earth,  and  flung 
headlong  Into  the  heart  and  centre  of  the  Pit.  What  he 
did,  he  could  not  say ; what  went  on  about  him,  he  could 
not  distinguish.  He  only  knew  that  roar  was  succeeding 
roar,  that  there  was  crashing  through  his  ears,  through  his 
very  brain,  the  combined  bellow  of  a hundred  Niagaras. 


388 


The  Pit 


Hands  clutched  and  tore  at  him,  his  own  tore  and  clutched 
in  turn.  The  Pit  was  mad,  was  drunk  and  frenzied;  not 
a man  of  all  those  who  fought  and  scrambled  and  shouted 
who  knew  what  he  or  his  neighbour  did.  They  only  knew 
that  a support  long  thought  to  be  secure  was  giving  way, 
not  gradually,  not  evenly,  but  by  horrible  collapses,  and 
equally  horrible  upward  leaps.  Now  it  held,  now  it  broke, 
now  it  reformed  again,  rose  again,  then  again  in  hideous 
cataclysms  fell  from  beneath  their  feet  to  lower  depths 
than  before.  The  official  reporter  leaned  back  in  his 
place,  helpless.  On  the  wall  overhead,  the  indicator  on  the 
dial  was  rocking  back  and  forth,  like  the  mast  of  a ship 
caught  in  a monsoon.  The  price  of  July  wheat  no  man 
could  so  much  as  approximate.  The  fluctuations  were  no 
longer  by  fractions  of  a cent,  but  by  ten  cents,  fifteen  cents, 
twenty-five  cents  at  a time.  On  one  side  of  the  Pit  wheat 
sold  at  ninety  cents,  on  the  other  at  a dollar  and  a 
quarter. 

And  all  the  while  above  the  din  upon  the  floor,  above 
the  tramplings  and  the  shoutings  in  the  Pit,  there  seemed 
to  thrill  and  swell  that  appalling  roar  of  the  Wheat  itself 
coming  in,  coming  on  like  a tidal  wave,  bursting  through, 
dashing  barriers  aside,  rolling  like  a measureless,  almighty 
river,  from  the  farms  of  Iowa  and  the  ranches  of  Cali- 
fornia, on  to  the  East — ^to  the  bakeshops  and  hungry  ; 
mouths  of  Europe. 

Landry  caught  one  of  the  Gretry  traders  by  the  arm. 

“ What  shall  we  do?”  he  shouted.  “ I’ve  bought  up  to 
my  limit.  No  more  orders  have  come  in.  The  market  has  : 
gone  from  under  us.  What’s  to  be  done  ?”  ' 

“ I don’t  know,”  the  other  shouted  back,  “ I don’t  know,  j 
We’re  all  gone  to  hell;  looks  like  the  last  smash.  There  i 
are  no  more  supporting  orders — something’s  gone  wrong. 
Gretry  hasn’t  sent  any  word.” 

Then,  Landry,  beside  himself  with  excitement  and  with 


A Story  of  Chicago 


389 


actual  terror,  hardly  knowing  even  yet  what  he  did, 
turned  sharply  about.  He  fought  his  way  out  of  the  Pit ; 
he  ran  hatless  and  panting  across  the  floor,  in  and  out 
between  the  groups  of  spectators,  down  the  stairs  to  the 
corridor  below,  and  into  the  Gretry-Converse  offices. 

In  the  outer  office  a group  of  reporters  and  the  represen- 
tatives of  a great  commercial  agency  were  besieging  one 
of  the  heads  of  the  firm.  They  assaulted  him  with  ques- 
tions. 

“ Just  tell  us  where  you  are  at — that’s  all  we  want  to 
know.” 

“ Just  what  is  the  price  of  July  wheat  ?” 

“ Is  Jadwin  winning  or  losing?” 

But  the  other  threw  out  an  arm  in  a wild  gesture  of 
helplessness. 

“We  don’t  know,  ourselves,”  he  cried.  “ The  market 
has  run  clean  away  from  everybody.  You  know  as 
much  about  it  as  I do.  It’s  simply  hell  broken  loose, 
that’s  all.  We  can’t  tell  where  we  are  at  for  days  to 
come.” 

Landry  rushed  on.  He  swung  open  the  door  of  the 
private  office  and  entered,  slamming  it  behind  him  and  cry- 
ing out : 

“Mr,  Gretry,  what  are  we  to  do?  We’ve  had  no 
orders.” 

But  no  one  listened  to  him.  Of  the  group  that  gathered 
around  Gretry’s  desk,  no  one  so  much  as  turned  a head. 

Jadwin  stood  there  in  the  centre  of  the  others,  hatless, 
his  face  pale,  his  eyes  congested  with  blood.  Gretry 
fronted  him,  one  hand  upon  his  arm.  In  the  remainder 
of  the  group  Landry  recognised  the  senior  clerk  of  the 
office,  one  of  the  heads  of  a great  banking  house,  and  a 
couple  of  other  men — confidential  agents,  who  had  helped 
’ to  manipulate  the  great  corner. 

“ But  you  can’t,”  Gretry  was  exclaiming.  “ You 


39^ 


The  Pit 


can’t;  don’t  you  see  we  can’t  meet  our  margin  calls? 
It’s  the  end  of  the  game.  You’ve  got  no  more  money.” 

“ It’s  a lie !”  Never  so  long  as  he  lived  did  Landry  for- 
get the  voice  in  which  Jadwin  cried  the  words : “ It’s  a 
lie ! Keep  on  buying,  I tell  you.  Take  all  they’ll  offer. 
I tell  you  we’ll  touch  the  two  dollar  mark  before  noon.” 

“ Not  another  order  goes  up  to  that  floor,”  retorted 
Gretry.  “ Why,  J.,  ask  any  of  these  gentlemen  here. 
They’ll  tell  you.” 

“ It’s  useless,  Mr.  Jadwin,”  said  the  banker,  quietly. 
“ You  were  practically  beaten  two  days  ago.” 

“ Mr.  Jadwin,”  pleaded  the  senior  clerk,  “ for  God’s 
sake  listen  to  reason.  Our  firm ” 

But  Jadwin  was  beyond  all  appeal.  He  threw  off 
Gretry’s  hand. 

“ Your  firm,  your  firm — you’ve  been  cowards  from 
the  start.  I know  you,  I know  you.  You  have  sold  me 
out.  Crookes  has  bought  you.  Get  out  of  my  way!” 
he  shouted.  “ Get  out  of  my  way ! Do  you  hear  ? I’ll  play 
my  hand  alone  from  now  on.” 

“ J.,  old  man — why — see  here,  man,”  Gretry  implored, 
still  holding  him  by  the  arm ; “ here,  where  are  you 
going?” 

Jadwin’s  voice  rang  like  a trumpet  call: 

“ Into  the  Pit.” 

“ Look  here — wait — here.  Hold  him  back  gentlemen. 
He  don’t  know  what  he’s  about.” 

“If  you  won’t  execute  my  orders,  I’ll  act  myself.  I’m 
going  into  the  Pit,  I tell  you.” 

“ J.,  you’re  mad,  old  fellow.  You’re  ruined — don’t  you 
understand  ? — you’re  ruined.” 

“ Then  God  curse  you,  Sam  Gretry,  for  the  man  who 
failed  me  in  a crisis.”  And  as  he  spoke  Curtis  Jadwin 
struck  the  broker  full  in  the  face. 

Gretry  staggered  back  from  the  blow,  catching  at  the 


A Story  of  Chicago 


391 


edge  of  his  desk.  His  pale  face  flashed  to  crimson  for  an 
instant,  his  fists  clinched;  then  his  hands  fell  to  his  sides. 

“ No,”  he  said,  “ let  him  go,  let  him  go.  The  man  is 
merely  mad.” 

But,  Jadwin,  struggling  for  a second  in  the  midst  of  the 
group  that  tried  to  hold  him,  suddenly  flung  off  the  re- 
straining clasps,  thrust  the  men  to  one  side,  and  rushed 
from  the  room. 

Gretry  dropped  into  his  chair  before  his  desk. 

“ It’s  the  end,”  he  said,  simply. 

He  drew  a sheet  of  note  paper  to  him,  and  in  a shaking 
hand  wrote  a couple  of  lines. 

“ Take  that,”  he  said,  handing  the  note  to  the  senior 
clerk,  “ take  that  to  the  secretary  of  the  Board  at  once.” 

And  straight  into  the  turmoil  and  confusion  of  the  Pit, 
to  the  scene  of  so  many  of  his  victories,  the  battle  ground 
whereon  again  and  again,  his  enemies  routed,  he  had 
remained  the  victor  undisputed,  undismayed  came  the 
“ Great  Bull.”  No  sooner  had  he  set  foot  within  the  en- 
trance to  the  Floor,  than  the  news  went  flashing  and  fly- 
ing from  lip  to  lip.  The  galleries  knew  it,  the  public  room, 
and  the  Western  Union  knew  it,  the  telephone  booths 
knew  it,  and  lastly  even  the  Wheat  Pit,  torn  and  tossed 
and  rent  asunder  by  the  force  this  man  himself  had 
unchained,  knew  it,  and  knowing  stood  dismayed. 

For  even  then,  so  great  had  been  his  power,  so  complete 
his  dominion,  and  so  well-rooted  the  fear  which  he  had 
inspired,  that  this  last  move  in  the  great  game  he  had  been 
playing,  this  unexpected,  direct,  personal  assumption  of 
control  struck  a sense  of  consternation  into  the  heart  of 
the  hardiest  of  his  enemies. 

Jadwin  himself,  the  great  man,  the  “ Great  Bull  ” in 
the  Pit ! What  was  about  to  happen  ? Had  they  been  too 
premature  in  their  hope  of  his  defeat?  Had  he  been 
preparing  some  secret,  unexpected  manoeuvre?  For 


39^ 


The  Pit 


a second  they  hesitated,  then  moved  by  a common  im- 
pulse, feeling  the  push  of  the  wonderful  new  harvest  be- 
hind them,  they  gathered  themselves  together  for  the 
final  assault,  and  again  offered  the  wheat  for  sale;  of- 
fered it  by  thousands  upon  thousands  of  bushels;  poured, 
as  it  were,  the  reapings  of  entire  principalities  out  upon 
the  floor  of  the  Board  of  Trade. 

Jadwin  was  in  the  thick  of  the  confusion  by  now.  And 
the  avalanche,  the  undiked  Ocean  of  the  Wheat,  leap- 
ing to  the  lash  of  the  hurricane,  struck  him  fairly  in  the 
face. 

He  heard  it  now,  he  heard  nothing  else.  The  Wheat 
had  broken  from  his  control.  For  months,  he  had,  by  the 
might  of  his  single  arm,  held  it  back;  but  now  it  rose  like 
the  upbuilding  of  a colossal  billow.  It  towered,  tow- 
ered, hung  poised  for  an  instant,  and  then,  with  a thunder 
as  of  the  grind  and  crash  of  chaotic  worlds,  broke  upon 
him,  burst  through  the  Pit  and  raced  past  him,  on  and  on 
to  the  eastward  and  to  the  hungry  nations. 

And  then,  under  the  stress  and  violence  of  the  hour, 
something  snapped  in  his  brain.  The  murk  behind  his 
eyes  had  been  suddenly  pierced  by  a white  flash.  The 
strange  qualms  and  tiny  nervous  paroxysms  of  the  last 
few  months  all  at  once  culminated  in  some  indefinite,  in- 
definable crisis,  and  the  wheels  and  cogs  of  all  activities 
save  one  lapsed  away  and  ceased.  Only  one  function 
of  the  complicated  machine  persisted;  but  it  moved 
with  a rapidity  of  vibration  that  seemed  to  be  tearing  the 
tissues  of  being  to  shreds,  while  its  rhHhm  beat  out  the 
old  and  terrible  cadence : 

“ Wheat — ^wheat — wheat,  wheat — ^wheat — ^w’heat.” 

Blind  and  insensate,  Jadwin  strove  against  the  torrent 
of  the  Wheat.  There  in  the  middle  of  the  Pit,  surrounded 
and  assaulted  byherd  after  herd  of  wolves  yelping  for  his' 
destruction,  he  stood  braced,  rigid  upon  his  feet,  his  head 


i:  A Story  of  Chicago  393 

t 

ii 

[ up,  his  hand,  the  great  bony  hand  that  once  had  held  the 
1 1 whole  Pit  in  its  grip,  flung  high  in  the  air,  in  a gesture  of 
: I defiance,  while  his  voice  like  the  clangour  of  bugles 
['sounding  to  the  charge  of  the  forlorn  hope,  rang  out 
'[again  and  again,  over  the  din  of  his  enemies: 

! “ Give  a dollar  for  July — give  a dollar  for  July!  ” 

With  one  accord  they  leaped  upon  him.  The  little  group 
1'  of  his  traders  was  swept  aside.  Landry  alone,  Landry 
I who  had  never  left  his  side  since  his  rush  from  out 
j Gretry’s  office,  Landry  Court,  loyal  to  the  last,  his  one  re- 
maining soldier,  white,  shaking,  the  sobs  strangling  in  his 
throat,  clung  to  him  desperately.  Anotherbillowof  wheat 
was  preparing.  They  two — the  beaten  general  and  his 
young  armour  bearer — ^heard  it  coming ; hissing,  raging, 
bellowing,  it  swept  down  upon  them.  Landry  uttered  a 
cry.  Flesh  and  blood  could  not  stand  this  strain.  He 
cowered  at  his  chief’s  side,  his  shoulders  bent,  one  arm 
above  his  head,  as  if  to  ward  off  an  actual  physical  force. 

But  Jadwin,  iron  to  the  end,  stood  erect.  All  unknow- 
I ing  what  he  did,  he  had  taken  Landry’s  hand  in  his  and 
i the  boy  felt  the  grip  on  his  fingers  like  the  contracting 
' of  a vise  of  steel.  The  other  hand,  as  though  holding 
up  a standard,  was  still  in  the  air,  and  his  great  deep- 
; toned  voice  went  out  across  the  tumult,  proclaiming  to 
the  end  his  battle  cry: 

“ Give  a dollar  for  July — give  a dollar  for  July!” 

But,  little  by  little,  Landry  became  aware  that  the 
tumult  of  the  Pit  was  intermitting.  There  were  sudden 
lapses  in  the  shouting,  and  in  these  lapses  he  could  hear 
i from  somewhere  out  upon  the  floor  voices  that  were  cry- 
ing : “ Order — order,  order,  gentlemen.” 

But,  again  and  again  the  clamour  broke  out.  It  would 
die  down  for  an  instant,  in  response  to  these  appeals,  only 
to  burst  out  afresh  as  certain  groups  of  traders  started  the 
pandemonium  again,  by  the  wild  outcrying  of  their 


394 


The  Pit 


offers.  At  last,  however,  the  older  men  in  the  Pit,  re- 
gaining some  measure  of  self-control,  took  up  the  word, 
going  to  and  fro  in  the  press,  repeating  “ Order,  order.” 

And  then,  all  at  once,  the  Pit,  the  entire  floor  of  the 
Board  of  Trade  was  struck  dumb.  All  at  once  the  tension 
was  relaxed,  the  furious  struggling  and  stamping  was 
stilled.  Landry,  bewildered,  still  holding  his  chief  by  the 
hand,  looked  about  him.  On  the  floor,  near  at  hand,  stood 
the  president  of  the  Board  of  Trade  himself,  and  with 
him  the  vice-president  and  a group  "of  the  directors. 
Evidently  it  had  been  these  who  had  called  the  traders 
to  order.  But  it  was  not  toward  them  now  that  the 
hundreds  of  men  in  the  Pit  and  on  the  floor  were  looking. 

In  the  little  balcony  on  the  south  wall  opposite  the  visi- 
tors’ gallery  a figure  had  appeared,  a tall  grave  man,  in 
a long  black  coat — the  secretary  of  the  Board  of  Trade. 
Landry  with  the  others  saw  him,  saw  him  advance  to  the 
edge  of  the  railing,  and  fix  his  glance  upon  the  Wheat  Pit. 
In  his  hand  he  carried  a slip  of  paper. 

And  then  in  the  midst  of  that  profound  silence  the 
secretary  announced: 

“ All  trades  with  Gretry,  Converse  & Co.  must  be 
closed  at  once.” 

The  words  had  not  ceased  to  echo  in  the  high  vaultings  I 
of  the  roof  before  they  were  greeted  with  a wild,  shrill  yell 
of  exultation  and  triumph,  that  burst  from  the  crowding 
masses  in  the  Wheat  Pit. 

Beaten;  beaten  at  last,  the  Great  Bull!  Smashed!  The  , 
great  corner  smashed ! Jadwin  busted ! They  themselves  i 
saved,  saved,  saved!  Cheer  followed  upon  cheer,  yell  ' 
after  yell.  Hats  went  into  the  air.  In  a frenzy  of  delight  ' 
men  danced  and  leaped  and  capered  upon  the  edge  of  i 
the  Pit,  clasping  their  arms  about  each  other,  shaking  ; 
each  others’  hands,  cheering  and  hurrahing  till  their  i 
strained  voices  became  hoarse  and  faint. 


1 


A Story  of  Chicago  395 

Sotne  few  of  the  older  men  protested.  There  were  cries 

of : 

“ Shame,  shame !” 

“ Order — let  him  alone.” 

“ Let  him  be ; he’s  down  now.  Shame,  shame ! ” 

But  the  jubilee  was  irrepressible,  they  had  been  too 
cruelly  pressed,  these  others ; they  had  felt  the  weight  of 
the  Bull’s  hoof,  the  rip  of  his  horn.  Now  they  had 
beaten  him,  had  pulled  him  down. 

“ Yah-h-h,  whoop,  yi,  yi,  yi.  Busted,  busted,  busted. 
Hip,  hip,  hip,  and  a tiger ! ” 

“ Come  away,  sir.  For  God’s  sake,  Mr.  Jadwin,  come 
away.” 

Landry  was  pleading  with  Jadwin,  clutching  his  arm 
in  both  his  hands,  his  lips  to  his  chief’s  ear  to  make  himself 
heard  above  the  yelping  of  the  mob. 

Jadwin  was  silent  now.  He  seemed  no  longer  to  see  or 
hear;  heavily,  painfully  he  leaned  upon  the  young  man’s 
.shoulder. 

“ Come  away,  sir — for  God’s  sake ! ” 

The  group  of  traders  parted  before  them,  cheering 
even  while  they  gave  place,  cheering  with  eyes  averted, 
unwilling  to  see  the  ruin  that  meant  for  them  salvation. 

“ Yah-h-h.  Yah-h-h,  busted,  busted !” 

Landry  had  put  his  arm  about  Jadwin,  and  gripped  him 
close  as  he  led  him  from  the  Pit.  The  sobs  were  in  his 
throat  again,  and  tears  of  excitement,  of  grief,  of  anger 
and  impotence  were  running  down  his  face. 

“ Yah-h-h.  Yah-h-h,  he’s  done  for,  busted,  busted!” 

“ Damn  you  all,”  cried  Landry,  throwing  out  a furious 
fist,  “ damn  you  all ; you  brutes,  you  beasts  ! If  he’d  so 
much  as  raised  a finger  a week  ago,  you’d  have  run  for 
your  lives.” 

But  the  cheering  drowned  his  voice;  and  as  the  two 
passed  out  of  the  Pit  upon  the  floor,  the  gong  that  closed 


39^ 


The  Pit 


the  trading  struck  and,  as  it  seemed,  put  a period,  definite 
and  final  to  the  conclusion  of  Curtis  Jadwin’s  career  as 
speculator. 

Across  the  floor  towards  the  doorway  Landry  led  his 
defeated  captain.  Jadwin  was  in  a daze,  he  saw  nothing, 
heard  nothing.  Quietly  he  submitted  to  Landr)'’s  guiding 
arm.  The  visitors  in  the  galleries  bent  far  over  to  see  him 
pass,  and  from  all  over  the  floor,  spectators,  hangers-on, 
corn-and-provision  traders,  messenger  boys,  clerks  and 
reporters  came  hurrying  to  watch  the  final  exit  of  the 
Great  Bull,  from  the  scene  of  his  many  victories  and  his 
one  overwhelming  defeat. 

In  silence  they  watched  him  go  by.  Only  in  the  distance 
from  the  direction  of  the  Pit  itself  came  the  sound  of  dy- 
ing cheers.  But  at  the  doorway  stood  a figure  that  Lan- 
dry recognised  at  once — a small  man,  lean-faced,  trimly 
dressed,  his  clean-shaven  lips  pursed  like  the  mouth  of  a 
shut  money  bag,  imperturbable  as  ever,  cold,  unexcited — 
Calvin  Crookes  himself. 

^And  as  Jadwin  passed,  Landry  heard  the  Bear  leader 
say : 

“ They  can  cheer  now,  all  they  want.  They  didn’t  do 
it.  It  was  the  wheat  itself  that  beat  him;  no  combina- 
tion of  men  could  have  done  it — go  on,  cheer,  you  damn 
fools!  He  was  a bigger  man  than  the  best  of  us.’^ 

With  the  striking  of  the  gong,  and  the  general  move- 
ment of  the  crowd  in  the  galleries  towards  the  exits.  Page 
rose,  drawing  a long  breath,  pressing  her  hands  an  Instant 
to  her  burning  cheeks.  She  had  seen  all  that  had  hap- 
pened, but  she  had  not  understood.  The  whole  morning 
had  been  a whirl  and  a blur.  She  had  looked  down  upon 
a jam  of  men,  who  for  three  hours  had  done  nothing  but 
shout  and  struggle.  She  had  seen  Jadwin  come  into  the 
Pit,  and  almost  at  once  the  shouts  had  turned  to  cheers. 
That  must  have  meant,  she  thought,  that  Jadwin  had 


A Story  of  Chicago 


397 


done  something  to  please  those  excited  men.  They  were 
all  his  friends,  no  doubt.  They  were  cheering  him— 
cheering  his  success.  He  had  won  then ! And  yet  that 
announcement  from  the  opposite  balcony,  to  the  effect 
that  business  with  Mr.  Gretry  must  be  stopped,  immedi- 
ately! That  had  an  ominous  ring.  Or,  perhaps,  that 
meant  only  a momentary  check. 

As  she  descended  the  stairways,  with  the  departing 
spectators,  she  distinctly  heard  a man’s  voice  behind  her 
exclaim ; 

“ Well,  that  does  for  Mm  !’* 

Possibly,  after  all,  Mr.  Jadwin  had  lost  some  money 
that  morning  She  was  desperately  anxious  to  find  Lan- 
dry, and  to  learn  the  truth  of  what  had  happened,  and  for 
a long  moment  after  the  last  visitors  had  disappeared  she 
remained  at  the  foot  of  the  gallery  stairway,  hoping  that 
he  would  come  for  her.  But  she  saw  nothing  of  him,  and 
soon  remembered  she  had  told  him  to  come  for  her,  only 
in  case  he  was  able  to  get  away.  No  doubt  he  was  too 
busy  now.  Even  if  Mr.  Jadwin  had  won,  the  morning’s 
work  had  evidently  been  of  tremendous  importance.  This 
had  been  a great  day  for  the  wheat  speculators.  It  was 
not  surprising  that  Landry  should  be  detained.  She 
would  wait  till  she  saw  him  the  next  day  to  find  out  all  that 
had  taken  place. 

Page  returned  home.  It  was  long  past  the  hour  for 
luncheon  when  she  came  into  the  dining-room  of  the 
North  Avenue  house. 

“ Where  is  my  sister  ?”  she  asked  of  the  maid,  as  she 
sat  down  to  the  table ; “ has  she  lunched  yet  ?” 

But  it  appeared  that  Mrs.  Jadwin  had  sent  down  word 
to  say  that  she  wanted  no  lunch,  that  she  had  a headache 
and  would  remain  in  her  room. 

Page  hurried  through  with  her  chocolate  and  salad, 
and  ordering  a cup  of  strong  tea,  carried  it  up  to  Laura’s 
“ sitting-room  ” herself. 


398 


The  Pit 


Laura,  in  a long  tea-gown  lay  back  in  the  Madeira  chair, 
her  hands  clasped  behind  her  head,  doing  nothing  ap- 
parently but  looking  out  of  the  window.  She  was  paler 
even  than  usual,  and  to  Page’s  mind  seemed  preoccupied, 
and  in  a certain  indefinite  way  tense  and  hard.  Page,  as 
she  had  told  Landry  that  morning,  had  remarked  this 
tenseness,  this  rigidity  on  the  part  of  her  sister,  of  late. 
But  to-day  it  was  more  pronounced  than  ever.  Something 
surely  was  the  matter  with  Laura.  She  seemed  like  one 
who  had  staked  everything  upon  a hazard  and,  blind  to 
all  else,  was  keeping  back  emotion  with  all  her  strength, 
while  she  watched  and  waited  for  the  issue.  Page  guessed 
that  her  sister’s  trouble  had  to  do  with  Jadwin’s  complete 
absorption  in  business,  but  she  preferred  to  hold  her 
peace.  By  nature  the  young  girl  “ minded  her  own  busi- 
ness,” and  Laura  was  not  a woman  who  confided  her 
troubles  to  anybody.  Only  once  had  Page  presumed  to 
meddle  in  her  sister’s  affairs,  and  the  result  had  not  en- 
couraged a repetition  of  the  inten^ention.  Since  the  affair 
of  the  silver  match  box  she  had  kept  her  distance. 

Laura  on  this  occasion  declined  to  drink  the  tea  Page 
had  brought.  She  wanted  nothing,  she  said;  her  head 
ached  a little,  she  only  wished  to  lie  down  and  be  quiet. 

“ Pve  been  down  to  the  Board  of  Trade  all  the  morn- 
ing,” Page  remarked. 

Laura  fixed  her  with  a swift  glance;  she  demanded 
quickly : 

“ Did  you  see  Curtis  ?” 

“ No — or,  yes,  once ; he  came  out  on  the  floor.  Oh, 
Laura,  it  was  so  exciting  there  this  morning.  Something  ; 
important  happened,  I know.  I can’t  believe  it’s  that 
way  all  the  time.  Pm  afraid  IMr.  Jadwin  lost  a great  deal 
of  money.  I heard  some  one  behind  me  say  so,  but  I ] 
couldn’t  understand  what  was  going  on.  For  months 
I’ve  been  trying  to  get  a clear  idea  of  wheat  trading,  just 


j A Story  of  Chicago  399 

:!  because  it  was  Landry’s  business,  but  to-day  I couldn’t 
I make  anything  of  it  at  all.” 

“ Did  Curtis  say  he  was  coming  home  this  evening?” 

“ No.  Don’t  you  understand,  I didn’t  see  him  to  talk 
!to.” 

I “ Well,  why  didn’t  you,  Page  ?” 

“ Why,  Laura,  honey,  don’t  be  cross.  You  don’t  know 
i:how  rushed  everything  was.  I didn’t  even  try  to  see 
Landry.” 

“ Did  he  seem  very  busy  ?” 

I “Who,  Landry?  I ” 

[ “ No,  no,  no,  Curtis.” 

: “ Oh,  I should  say  so.  Why,  Laura,  I think,  honestly, 

I think  wheat  went  down  to — oh,  way  down.  They  say 
that  means  so  much  to  Mr.  Jadwin,  and  it  went  down, 
down,  down.  It  looked  that  way  to  me.  Don’t  that  mean 
that  he’ll  lose  a great  deal  of  money?  And  Landry 
seemed  so  brave  and  courageous  through  it  all.  Oh,  I 
felt  for  him  so;  I just  wanted  to  go  right  into  the  Pit 
with  him  and  stand  by  his  shoulder.” 

Laura  started  up  with  a sharp  gesture  of  impatience 
and  exasperation,  crying: 

“ Oh,  what  do  I care  about  wheat — about  this  wretched 
scrambling  for  money.  Curtis  was  busy,  you  say? 
He  looked  that  way?” 

Page  nodded : “ Everybody  was,”  she  said.  Then  she 
hazarded : 

“I  wouldn’t  worry,  Laura.  Of  course,  a man  must  give 
a great  deal  of  time  to  his  business.  I didn’t  mind  when 
Landry  couldn’t  come  home  with  me.” 

“ Oh — Landry,”  murmured  Laura. 

On  the  instant  Page  bjidled,  her  eyes  snapping. 

“ I think  that  was  very  uncalled  for,”  she  exclaimed, 
sitting  bolt  upright,  “ and  I can  tell  you  this,  Laura  Jad- 
win, if  you  did  care  a little  more  about  wheat — about 


400 


The  Pit 


your  husband’s  business — if  you  had  taken  more  of  an 
interest  in  his  work,  if  you  had  tried  to  enter  more  into 
his  life,  and  be  a help  to  him — and — and  sympathise — 
and — ” Page  caught  her  breath,  a little  bewildered  at 
her  own  vehemence  and  audacity.  But  she  had  com- 
mitted herself  now;  recklessly  she  plunged  on.  “Just 
think;  he  may  be  fighting  the  battle  of  his  life  down 
there  in  La  Salle  Street,  and  you  don’t  know  anything 
about  it — no,  nor  want  to  know.  ‘ What  do  you  care 
about  wheat,’  that’s  what  you  said.  Well,  I don’t  care 
either,  just  for  the  wheat  itself,  but  it’s  Landry’s  busi- 
ness, his  work;  and  right  or  wrong — ” Page  jumped 
to  her  feet,  her  fists  tight  shut,  her  face  scarlet,  her 
head  upraised,  “ right  or  wrong,  good  or  bad,  I’d  put 
my  two  hands  into  the  fire  to  help  him.” 

“What  business — began  Laura;  but  Page  was  not 
to  be  interrupted.  “ And  if  he  did  leave  me  alone  some- 
times,” she  said;  “do  you  think  I would  draw  a long 
face,  and  think  only  of  my  own  troubles.  I guess  he’s 
got  his  own  troubles  too.  If  my  husband  had  a battle 
to  fight,  do  you  think  I’d  mope  and  pine  because  he 
left  me  at  home;  no  I wouldn’t.  I’d  help  him  buckle 
his  sword  on,  and  when  he  came  back  to  me  I wouldn’t 
tell  him  how  lonesome  I’d  been,  but  I’d  take  care  of 
him  and  cry  over  his  wounds,  and  tell  him  to  be  brave — • 
and — and — and  I’d  help  him.” 

And  with  the  words.  Page,  the  tears  in  her  eyes  and 
the  sobs  in  her  throat,  flung  out  of  the  room,  shutting 
the  door  violently  behind  her. 

Laura’s  first  sensation  was  one  of  anger  only.  As 
always,  her  younger  sister  had  presumed  again  to  judge 
her,  had  chosen  this  day  of  all  others,  to  annoy  her. 
She  gazed  an  Instant  at  the  closed  door,  then  rose  and 
put  her  chin  in  the  air.  She  was  right,  and  Page,  her 
husband,  everybody,  were  wrong.  She  had  been 


A Story  of  Chicago 


401 


flouted,  ignored.  She  paced  the  length  of  the  room 
a couple  of  times,  then  threw  herself  down  upon  the 
couch,  her  chin  supported  on  her  palm. 

As  she  crossed  the  room,  however,  her  eye  had  been 
caught  by  an  opened  note  from  Mrs.  Cressler,  received 
the  day  before,  and  apprising  her  of  the  date  of  the  fu- 
neral. At  the  sight,  all  the  tragedy  leaped  up  again  in 
her  mind  and  recollection,  and  in  fancy  she  stood  again 
in  the  back  parlour  of  the  Cressler  home;  her  fingers 
pressed  over  her  mouth  to  shut  back  the  cries,  horror 
and  the  terror  of  sudden  death  rending  her  heart,  shak- 
ing the  brain  itself.  Again  and  again  since  that  dread- 
ful moment  had  the  fear  come  back,  mingled  with  grief, 
with  compassion,  and  the  bitter  sorrow  of  a kind  friend 
gone  forever  from  her  side.  And  then,  her  resolution 
girding  itself,  her  will  power  at  fullest  stretch,  she  had 
put  the  tragedy  from  her.  Other  and — for  her — more 
momentous  events  impended.  Everything  in  life,  even 
death  itself,  must  stand  aside  while  her  love  was  put 
to  the  test.  Life  and  death  were  little  things.  Love 
only  existed ; let  her  husband’s  career  fail ; what  did  it 
import  so  only  love  stood  the  strain  and  issued  from  the 
struggle  triumphant?  And  now,  as  she  lay  upon  her 
couch,  she  crushed  down  all  compunction  for  the  pitiful 
calamity  whose  last  scene  she  had  discovered,  her 
thoughts  once  more  upon  her  husband  and  herself. 
Had  the  shock  of  that  spectacle  in  the  Cresslers’  house, 
and  the  wearing  suspense  in  which  she  had  lived  of  late, 
so  torn  and  disordered  the  delicate  feminine  nerves 
that  a kind  of  hysteria  animated  and  directed  her  im- 
pulses, her  words,  and  actions?  Laura  did  not  know. 
She  only  knew  that  the  day  was  going  and  that  her  hus- 
band neither  came  near  her  nor  sent  her  word. 

Even  if  he  had  been  very  busy,  this  was  her  birth- 
day,— though  he  had  lost  millions!  Could  he  not  have 
*6 


402 


The  Pit 


sent  even  the  foolishest  little  present  to  her,  even  a line 
— three  words  on  a scrap  of  paper?  But  she  checked 
herself.  The  day  was  not  over  yet;  perhaps,  perhaps 
he  would  remember  her,  after  all,  before  the  afternoon 
was  over.  He  was  managing  a little  surprise  for  her, 
no  doubt.  He  knew  what  day  this  was.  After  their 
talk  that  Sunday  in  his  smoking-room  he  would  not  for- 
get. And,  besides,  it  was  the  evening  that  he  had  prom- 
ised should  be  hers.  “ If  he  loved  her,”  she  had  said, 
he  would  give  that  evening  to  her.  Never,  never  would 
Curtis  fail  her  when  conjured  by  that  spell. 

Laura  had  planned  a little  dinner  for  that  night.  It 
was  to  be  served  at  eight.  Page  would  have  dined  ear- 
lier; only  herself  and  her  husband  were  to  be  present. 
It  was  to  be  her  birthday  dinner.  All  the  noisy,  clamour- 
ous world  should  be  excluded ; no  faintest  rumble  of  the 
Pit  would  intrude.  She  would  have  him  all  to  herself. 
He  would,  so  she  determined,  forget  everHhing  else  in 
his  love  for  her.  She  would  be  beautiful  as  never  be- 
fore— brilliant,  resistless,  and  dazzling.  She  would  have 
him  at  her  feet,  her  own,  her  own  again,  as  much  her 
own  as  her  very  hands.  And  before  she  would  let  him 
go  he  would  forever  and  forever  have  abjured  the  Battle 
of  the  Street  that  had  so  often  caught  him  from  her. 
The  Pit  should  not  have  him;  the  sweep  of  that  great 
whirlpool  should  never  again  prevail  against  the  power 
of  love. 

Yes,  she  had  suffered,  she  had  known  the  humiliation 
of  a woman  neglected.  But  it  was  to  end  now;  her 
pride  would  never  again  be  lowered,  her  love  never 
again  be  ignored. 

But  the  afternoon  passed  and  evening  drew  on  with- 
out any  word  from  him.  In  spite  of  her  anxiety,  she 
yet  murmured  over  and  over  again  as  she  paced  the 
floor  of  her  room,  listening  for  the  ringing  of  the  door 
bell: 


A Story  of  Chicago  403 

“ He  will  send  word,  he  will  send  word.  I know  he 
will.” 

By  four  o’clock  she  had  begun  to  dress.  Never  had 
she  made  a toilet  more  superb,  more  careful.  She  dis- 
dained a “ costume  ” on  this  great  evening.  It  was  not 
to  be  “ Theodora  ” now,  nor  “ Juliet,”  nor  “ Carmen.” 
It  was  to  be  only  Laura  Jadwin — ^just  herself,  unaided 
by  theatricals,  unadorned  by  tinsel.  But  it  seemed  con- 
sistent none  the  less  to  choose  her  most  beautiful  gown 
for  the  occasion,  to  panoply  herself  in  every  charm  that 
was  her  own.  Her  dress,  that  closely  sheathed  the  low, 
flat  curves  of  her  body  and  that  left  her  slender  arms 
and  neck  bare,  was  one  shimmer  of  black  scales,  iri- 
descent, undulating  with  light  to  her  every  movement. 
In  the  coils  and  masses  of  her  black  hair  she  fixed  her 
two  great  cabochons  of  pearls,  and  clasped  about  her 
neck  her  palm-broad  collaret  of  pearls  and  diamonds. 
Against  one  shoulder  nodded  a bunch  of  Jacqueminots, 
royal  red,  imperial. 

It  was  hard  upon  six  o’clock  when  at  last  she  dis- 
missed her  maid.  Left  alone,  she  stood  for  a moment 
in  front  of  her  long  mirror  that  reflected  her  image 
from  head  to  foot,  and  at  the  sight  she  could  not  for- 
bear a smile  and  a sudden  proud  lifting  of  her  head. 
All  the  woman  in  her  preened  and  plumed  herself  in  the 
consciousness  of  the  power  of  her  beauty.  Let  the 
Battle  of  the  Street  clamour  never  so  loudly  now,  let 
the  suction  of  the  Pit  be  never  so  strong.  Eve  tri- 
umphed. Venus  toute  entiere  s’attachait  a sa  proie. 

These  women  of  America,  these  others  who  allowed 
business  to  draw  their  husbands  from  them  more  and 
more,  who  submitted  to  those  cruel  conditions  that 
forced  them  to  be  content  with  the  wreckage  left  after 
the  storm  and  stress  of  the  day’s  work — the  jaded  mind, 
the  exhausted  body,  the  faculties  dulled  by  overwork — • 


404 


The  Pit 


she  was  sorry  for  them.  They,  less  radiant  than  herself, 
less  potent  to  charm,  could  not  call  their  husbands  back. 
But  she,  Laura,  was  beautiful ; she  knew  it ; she  gloried 
in  her_beauty.  It  was  her  strength.  She  felt  the  same 
pride  in  it  as  the  warrior  in  a finely  tempered  weapon. 

And  to-night  her  beauty  was  brighter  than  ever.  It 
was  a veritable  aureole  that  crowned  her.  She  knew 
herself  to  be  invincible.  So  only  that  he  saw  her  thus, 
she  knew  that  she  would  conquer.  And  he  would 
come.  “ If  he  loved  her,”  she  had  said.  By  his  love 
for  her  he  had  promised;  by  his  love  she  knew  she 
would  prevail. 

And  then  at  last,  some^Vhere  out  of  the  twilight, 
somewhere  out  of  those  lowest,  unplumbed  depths  of  her 
own  heart,  came  the  first  tremor  of  doubt,  come  the  tardy 
vibration  of  the  silver  cord  which  Page  had  struck  so 
sharply.  Was  it — after  all — Love,  that  she  cherished 
and  strove  for — love,  or  self-love?  Ever  since  Page 
had  spoken  she  seemed  to  have  fought  against  the  in- 
trusion of  this  idea.  But,  little  by  little,  it  rose  to  the 
surface.  At  last,  for  an  instant,  it  seemed  to  confront 
her. 

Was  this,  after  all,  the  right  way  to  win  her  husband 
back  to  her — this  display  of  her  beauty,  this  parade  of 
dress,  this  exploitation  of  self? 

Self,  self.  Had  she  been  selfish  from  the  very  first? 
What  real  interest  had  she  taken  in  her  husband’s 
work?  “ Right  or  wrong,  good  or  bad,  I would  put 
my  two  hands  into  the  fire  to  help  him.”  Was  this 
the  way?  Was  not  this  the  only  way?  Win  him  back 
to  her?  What  if  there  were  more  need  for  her  to  win 
back  to  him?  Oh,  once  she  had  been  able  to  say  that 
love,  the  supreme  triumph  of  a woman’s  life,  was  less 
a victory  than  a capitulation.  Had  she  ordered  her  life 
upon  that  ideal?  Did  she  even  believe  in  the  ideal  at 
this  day?  Whither  had  this  cruel  cult  of  self  led  her? 


A Story  of  Chicago  405 

I Dimly  Laura  Jadwin  began  to  see  and  to  understand 
a whole  new  conception  of  her  little  world.  The  birth 
|of  a new  being  within  her  was  not  for  that  night.  It 
Iwas  conception  only — the  sensation  of  a new  element, 
a new  force  that  was  not  herself,  somewhere  in  the 
inner  chambers  of  her  being. 

I The  woman  in  her  was  too  complex,  the  fibres  of 
Icharacter  too  intricate  and  mature  to  be  wrenched  into 
Inew  shapes  by  any  sudden  revolution.  But  just  so 
isurely  as  the  day  was  going,  just  so  surely  as  the  New 
Day  would  follow  upon  the  night,  conception  had  taken 
place  within  her.  Whatever  she  did  that  evening,  what- 
ever came  to  her,  through  whatever  crises  she  should 
hurry,  she  would  not  now  be  quite  the  same.  She  had 
been  accustomed  to  tell  herself  that  there  were  two 
Lauras.  Now  suddenly,  behold,  she  seemed  to  recog- 
nise a third — a third  that  rose  above  and  forgot  the 
other  two,  that  in  some  beautiful,  mysterious  way  was 
identity  ignoring  self. 

But  the  change  was  not  to  be  abrupt.  Very,  very 
vaguely  the  thoughts  came  to  her.  The  change  would 
be  slow,  slow — would  be  evolution,  not  revolution.  The 
consummation  was  to  be  achieved  in  the  coming  years. 
For  to-night  she  was — what  was  she?  Only  a woman, 
weak,  torn  by  emotion,  driven  by  impulse,  and  entering 
upon  what  she  imagined  was  a great  crisis  in  her  life. 

But  meanwhile  the  time  was  passing.  Laura  de- 
scended to  the  library  and,  picking  up  a book,  composed 
herself  to  read.  When  six  o’clock  struck,  she  made 
haste  to  assure  herself  that  of  course  she  could  not  ex- 
pect him  exactly  on  the  hour.  No,  she  must  make  al- 
lowances ; the  day — as  Page  had  suspected — had  prob- 
ably been  an  important  one.  He  would  be  a little  late, 
but  he  would  come  soon.  “ If  you  love  me,  you  will 
come,”  she  had  said. 


4o6 


The  Pit 


But  an  hour  later  Laura  paced  the  room  with  tight- 
shut  lips  and  burning  cheeks.  She  was  still  alone;  her/ 
day,  her  hour,  was  passing,  and  he  had  not  so  much  as'; 
sent  word.  For  a moment  the  thought  occurred  to  her' 
that  he  might  perhaps  be  in  great  trouble,  in  great 
straits,  that  there  was  an  excuse.  But  instantly  she 
repudiated  the  notion. 

' “ No,  no,”  she  cried,  beneath  her  breath.  “ He  should  > 
come,  no  matter  what  has  happened.  Or  even,  at  the 
very  least,  he  could  send  word.” 

The  minutes  dragged  by.  No  roll  of  wheels  echoed^ 
under  the  carriage  porch ; no  step  sounded  at  the  outer 
door.  The  house  was  still,  the  street  without  was  still,; 
the  silence  of  the  midsummer  evening  widened,  un-' 
broken  around  her,  like  a vast  calm  pool.  Only  the 
musical  Gregorians  of  the  newsboys  chanting  the  even- 
ing’s extras  from  corner  to  corner  of  the  streets  rose 
into  the  air  from  time  to  time.  She  was  once  more 
alone.  Was  she  to  fail  again?  Was  she  to  be  set  aside 
once  more,  as  so  often  heretofore — set  aside,  flouted, 
ignored,  forgotten  ? “ If  you  love  me,”  she  had  said. 

And  this  was  to  be  the  supreme  test.  This  evening 
was  to  decide  which  was  the  great  influence  of  his  life-^ 
was  to  prove  whether  or  not  love  was  paramount.  This 
was  the  crucial  hour.  “ And  he  knows  it,”  cried  Laura. 
“ He  knows  it.  He  did  not  forget,  could  not  have  for- 
gotten.” 

The  half  hour  passed,  then  the  hour,  and  as  eight 
o’clock  chimed  from  the  clock  over  the  mantelshelf 
Laura  stopped,  suddenly  rigid,  in  the  midst  of  the  floor. 

Her  anger  leaped  like  fire  within  her.  All  the  pas- 
sion of  the  woman  scorned  shook  her  from  head  to 
foot.  At  the  very  moment  of  her  triumph  she  had  been 
flouted,  in  the  pitch  of  her  pride ! And  this  was  not 
the  only  time.  All  at  once  the  past  disappointments, 


A Story  of  Chicago 


407 


slig’hts,  and  humiliations  came  again  to  her  memory. 
She  had  pleaded,  and  had  been  rebuffed  again  and 
again ; she  had  given  all  and  had  received  neglect — she, 
Laura,  beautiful  beyond  other  women,  who  had  known 
love,  devoted  service,  and  the  most  thoughtful  con- 
sideration from  her  earliest  girlhood,  had  been  cast 
aside. 

Suddenly  she  bent  her  head  quickly,  listening  intently. 
Then  she  drew  a deep  breath,  murmuring  “ At  last,  at 
last ! ” 

For  the  sound  of  a footstep  in  the  vestibule  was  un- 
mistakable, He  had  come  after  all.  But  so  Hte,  so 
late!  No,  she  could  not  be  gracious  at  once;  he  must 
be  made  to  feel  how  deeply  he  had  offended;  he  must 
sue  humbly,  very  humbly,  for  pardon.  The  servant’s 
step  sounded  in  the  hall  on  the  way  towards  the  front 
door. 

“ I am  in  here,  Matthew,”  she  called.  “ In  the  library. 
Tell  him  I am  in  here.” 

She  cast  a quick  glance  at  herself  in  the  mirror  close 
at  hand,  touched  her  hair  with  rapid  fingers,  smoothed 
the  agitation  trom  her  forehead,  and  sat  down  in  a deep 
chair  near  the  fireplace,  opening  a book,  turning  her 
back  towards  the  door. 

She  heard  him  come  in,  but  did  not  move.  Even  as 
he  crossed  the  floor  she  kept  her  head  turned  away. 
The  footsteps  paused  near  at  hand.  There  was  a mo- 
ment’s silence.  Then  slowly  Laura,  laying  down  her 
book,  turned  and  faced  him. 

“ With  many  very,  very  happy  returns  of  the  day,” 
said  Sheldon  Corthell,  as  he  held  towards  her  a cluster 
of  deep-blue  violets. 

I Laura  sprang  to  her  feet,  a hand  upon  her  cheek, 
her  eyes  wide  and  flashing. 

“You?”  was  all  she  had  breath  to  utter.  “You?” 


4o8 


The  Pit 


The  artist  smiled  as  he  laid  the  flowers  upon  the  table. 

“ I am  going  away  again  to-morrow,”  he  said,  “ for 
aiways,  I think.  Have  I startled  you?  I only  came  to 
say  good-by — and  to  wish  you  a happy  birthday.” 

“Oh  you  remembered!”  she  cried.  “You  remem- 
bered! I might  have  known  you  would.” 

But  the  revulsion  had  been  too  great.  She  had  been 
wrong  after  all.  Jadwin  had  forgotten.  Emotions  to 
which  she  could  put  no  name  swelled  in  her  heart  and 
rose  in  a quick,  gasping  sob  to  her  throat.  The  tears 
sprang  to  her  eyes.  Old  impulses,  forgotten  impetu- 
osities whipped  her  on. 

“ Oh,  you  remembered,  you  remembered!  ” she  cried 
again,  holding  out  both  her  hands. 

He  caught  them  in  his  own. 

Remembered ! ” he  echoed.  “ I have  never  for- 
gotten ” 

“ No,  no,”  she  replied,  shaking  her  head,  winking 
back  the  tears.  “ You  don’t  understand.  I spoke  be- 
fore I thought.  You  don’t  understand.” 

“ I do,  believe  me,  I do,”  he  exclaimed.  “ I under- 
stand you  better  than  you  understand  yourself.” 

Laura’s  answer  was  a cry. 

“ Oh,  then,  why  did  you  ever  leave  me — you  who  did 
understand  me?  Why  did  you  leave  me  only  because 
I told  you  to  go?  Why  didn’t  you  make  me  love  you 
then?  Why  didn’t  you  make  me  understand  myself?” 
She  clasped  her  hands  tight  together  upon  her  breast; 
her  words,  torn  by  her  sobs,  came  all  but  incoherent 
from  behind  her  shut  teeth.  “ No,  no ! ” she  exclaimed, 
as  he  made  towards  her.  “ Don’t  touch  me,  don’t  touch 
me ! It  is  too  late.” 

“ It  is  not  too  late.  Listen — ^listen  to  me.” 

“ Oh,  why  weren’t  5'ou  a man,  strong  enough  to  know 
a woman’s  weakness?  You  can  only  torture  me  now. 
Ah,  I hate  you ! I hate  you ! ” 


A Story  of  Chicago 


409 


“ You  love  me  ! I tell  you,  you  love  me ! ” he  cried, 
passionately,  and  before  she  was  aware  of  it  she  was  in 
his  arms,  his  lips  were  against  her  lips,  were  on  her 
shoulders,  her  neck. 

“You  love  me!”  he  cried.  “You  love  me!  I defy 
you  to  say  you  do  not.” 

“ Oh,  make  me  love  you,  then,”  she  answered. 
“ Make  me  believe  that  you  do  love  me.” 

“ Don’t  you  know,”  he  cried,  “ don’t  you  know  how 
I have  loved  you  ? Oh,  from  the  very  first ! My  love 
has  been  my  life,  has  been  my  death,  my  one  joy,  and 
my  one  bitterness.  It  has  always  been  you,  dearest, 
year  after  year,  hour  after  hour.  And  now  I’ve  found 
you  again.  And  now  I shall  never,  never  let  you  go.” 

“ No,  no ! Ah,  don’t,  don’t ! ” she  begged.  “ I im- 
plore you.  I am  weak,  weak.  Just  a word,  and  I 
would  forget  everything.” 

“ And  I do  speak  that  word,  and  your  own  heart 
answers  me  in  spite  of  you,  and  you  will  forget — forget 
everything  of  unhappiness  in  your  life ” 

“ Please,  please,”  she  entreated,  breathlessly.  Then, 
taking  the  leap  : “ Ah,  I love  you,  I love  you ! ” 

“ — Forget  all  your  unhappiness,”  he  went  on,  hold- 
ing her  close  to  him.  “ Forget  the  one  great  mistake 
we  both  made.  Forget  everything,  everything,  every- 
thing but  that  we  love  each  other.” 

“ Don’t  let  me  think,  then,”  she  cried.  “ Don’t  let  me 
think.  Make  me  forget  everything,  every  little  hour, 
every  little  moment  that  has  passed  before  this  day.  Oh, 
if  I remembered  once,  I would  kill  you,  kill  you  with 
my  hands ! I don’t  know  what  I am  saying,”  she 
moaned,  “ I don’t  know  what  I am  saying.  I am  mad, 
I think.  Yes — I — it  must  be  that.”  She  pulled  back 
from  him,  looking  into  his  face  with  wide-opened  eyes. 

“ What  have  I said,  what  have  we  done,  what  are  you 
here  for?” 


410 


The  Pit 


“ To  take  you  away,”  he  answered,  gently,  holding 
her  in  his  arms,  looking  down  into  her  eyes.  “ To  take 
you  far  away  with  me.  To  give  my  whole  life  to  mak- 
ing you  forget  that  you  were  ever  unhappy.” 

“ And  you  will  never  leave  me  alone — never  once  ? ” 

“ Never,  never  once.” 

She  drew  back  from  him,  looking  about  the  room 
with  unseeing  eyes,  her  fingers  plucking  and  tearing  at 
the  lace  of  her  dress ; her  voice  was  faint  and  small,  like 
the  voice  of  a little  child. 

“ I — I am  afraid  to  be  alone.  Oh,  I must  never  be 
alone  again  so  long  as  I shall  live.  I think  I should 
die.” 

“And  you  never  shall  be;  never  again.  Ah,  this  is 
my  birthday,  too,  sweetheart.  I am  born  again  to- 
night.” 

Laura  clung  to  his  arm;  it  was  as  though  she  were 
in  the  dark,  surrounded  by  the  vague  terrors  of  her  girl- 
hood. “ And  you  will  always  love  me,  love  me,  love 
me  ? ” she  whispered.  “ Sheldon,  Sheldon,  love  me  al- 
ways, always,  with  all  3’-our  heart  and  soul  and  strength.” 

Tears  stood  in  Corthell’s  eyes  as  he  answered: 

“ God  forgive  whoever — whatever  has  brought  you  to 
this  pass,”  he  said. 

And,  as  if  it  were  a realisation  of  his  thought,  there 
suddenly  came  to  the  ears  of  both  the  roll  of  wheels 
upon  the  asphalt  under  the  carriage  porch  and  the 
trampling  of  iron-shod  hoofs. 

“ Is  that  your  husband  ? ” Corthell’s  quick  eye  took 
in  Laura’s  disarranged  coiffure,  one  black  lock  low 
upon  her  neck,  the  roses  at  her  shoulder  crushed  and 
broken,  and  the  bright  spot  on  either  cheek. 

“ Is  that  your  husband?  ” 

“ My  husband — I don’t  know.”  She  looked  up  at 
him  with  unseeing  eyes.  “Where  is  my  husband?  I 


A Story  of  Chicago 


411 


have  no  husband.  You  are  letting  me  remember”  she 
cried,  in  terror.  “ You  are  letting  me  remember.  Ah, 
no,  no,  you  don’t  love  me ! I hate  you ! ” 

Quickly  he  bent  and  kissed  her. 

“ I will  come  for  you  to-morrow  evening,”  he  said. 
" You  will  be  ready  then  to  go  with  me?  ” 

“ Ready  then?  Yes,  yes,  to  go  with  you  an3rwihere.” 

He  stood  still  a moment,  listening.  Somewhere  a 
door  closed.  He  heard  the  hoofs  upon  the  asphalt 
again. 

“ Good-by,”  he  whispered.  “ God  bless  you ! Good- 
by  till  to-morrow  night.”  And  with  the  words  he  was 
gone.  The  front  door  of  the  house  closed  quietly. 

Had  he  come  back  again  ? Laura  turned  in  her  place 
on  the  long  divan  at  the  sound  of  a heavy  tread  by  the 
door  of  the  library. 

Then  an  uncertain  hand  drew  the  heavy  curtain  aside. 
Jadwin,  her  husband,  stood  before  her,  his  eyes  sunken 
deep  in  his  head,  his  face  dead  white,  his  hand  shaking. 
He  stood  for  a long  instant  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
looking  at  her.  Then  at  last  his  lips  moved : 

“Old  girl.  . . . Honey.” 

Laura  rose,  and  all  but  groped  her  way  towafds  him, 
her  heart  beating,  the  tears  streaming  down  her  face. 

“ My  husband,  my  husband ! ” 

Together  they  made  their  way  to  the  divan,  and  sank 
down  upon  it  side  by  side,  holding  to  each  other, 
trembling  and  fearful,  like  children  in  the  night. 

“ Honey,”  whispered  Jadwin,  after  a while.  “ Honey, 
it’s  dark,  it’s  dark.  Something  happened.  ...  I don't 
remember,”  he  put  his  hand  uncertainly  to  his  head, 
“ I can’t  remember  very  well ; but  it’s  dark — a little.” 

“ It’s  dark,”  she  repeated,  in  a low  whisper.  “ It’s 
dark,  dark.  Something  happened.  Yes.  I must  not 
remember.” 


412 


The  Pit 


They  spoke  no  further.  A long  time  passed.  Pressed 
close  together,  Curtis  Jadwin  and  his  wife  sat  there  in 
the  vast,  gorgeous  room,  silent  and  trembling,  ridden 
with  unnamed  fears,  groping  in  the  darkness. 

And  while  they  remained  thus,  holding  close  by  one 
another,  a prolonged  and  wailing  cry  rose  suddenly 
from  the  street,  and  passed  on  through  the  city  under 
the  stars  and  the  wide  canopy  of  the  darkness. 

“ Extra,  oh-h-h,  extra!  All  about  the  Smash  of  the 
Great  Wheat  Corner!  All  about  the  Failure  of  Curtis 
Jadwin ! ” 


CONCLUSION 


The  evening  had  closed  in  wet  and  misty.  All  day  long 
a chill  wind  had  blown  across  the  city  from  off  the  lake, 
and  by  eight  o’clock,  when  Laura  and  Jadwin  came 
down  to  the  dismantled  library,  a heavy  rain  was  falling. 

Laura  gave  Jadwin  her  arm  as  they  made  their  way 
across  the  room — their  footsteps  echoing  strangely  from 
the  uncarpeted  boards. 

“ There,  dear,”  she  said.  “ Give  me  the  valise.  Now 
sit  down  on  the  packing’ box  there.  Are  you  tired? 
You  had  better  put  your  hat  on.  It  is  full  of  draughts 
here,  now  that  all  the  furniture  and  curtains  are  out.” 

“ No,  no.  I’m  all  right,  old  girl.  Is  the  hack  there 
yet?” 

“Not  yet.  You’re  sure  you’re  not  tired?”  she  in- 
sisted. “ You  had  a pretty  bad  siege  of  it,  you  know, 
and  this  is  only  the  first  week  you’ve  been  up.  You 
remember  how  the  doctor ” 

“ I’ve  had  too  good  a nurse,”  he  answered,  stroking 
her  hand,  “ not  to  be  fine  as  a fiddle  by  now.  You  must 
be  tired  yourself,  Laura.  Why,  for  whole  days  there — 
and  nights,  too,  they  tell  me — you  never  left  the  room.” 

She  shook  her  head,  as  though  dismissing  the  subject. 

“I  wonder,”  she  said,  sitting  down  upon  a smaller 
packing-box  and  clasping  a knee  in  her  hands,  “ I won- 
der what  the  West  will  be  like.  Do  you  know  I think 
I am  going  to  like  it,  Curtis?  ” 

“ It  will  be  starting  in  all  over  again,  old  girl,”  he  said, 
with  a warning  shake  of  his  head.  “ Pretty  hard  at  first. 
I’m  afraid.” 

She  laughed  an  almost  contemptuous  note. 


414 


The  Pit 


“ Hard ! Now  ? ” She  took  his  hand  and  laid  it  to 
her  cheek. 

“ By  all  the  rules  you  ought  to  hate  me,”  he  began. 
“ What  have  I done  for  you  but  hurt  you  and,  at  last, 
bring  you  to ” 

But  she  shut  her  gloved  hand  over  his  mouth. 

“ Stop!  ” she  cried.  “ Hush,  dear.  You  have  brought 
me  the  greatest  happiness  of  my  life.” 

Then  under  her  breath,  her  eyes  wide  and  thoughtful, 
she  murmured: 

“ A capitulation  and  not  a triumph,  and  I have  won 
a victory  by  surrendering.” 

“ Hey — what?  ” demanded  Jadwin.  “ I didn’t  hear.” 

Never  mind,”  she  answered.  “ It  was  nothing. 
‘ The  world  is  all  before  us  where  to  choose,’  now,  isn’t 
it?  And  this  big  house  and  all  the  life  we  have  led  in 
it  was  just  an  incident  in  our  lives — an  incident  that  is 
closed.” 

“ Looks  like  it,  to  look  around  this  room,”  he  said, 
grimly.  “ Nothing  left  but  the  wall  paper.  What  do 
you  suppose  are  in  these  boxes  ? ” 

“ They’re  labelled  ‘ books  and  portieres.’  ” 

“ Who  bought  ’em  I wonder  ? I’d  have  thought  the 
party  who  bought  the  house  would  have  taken  them. 
Well,  it  was  a wrench  to  see  the  place  and  all  go  so 
dirt  cheap,  and  the  ‘Thetis,”  too,  by  George!  But  I’m 
glad  now.  It’s  as  though  we  had  lightened  ship.”  He 
looked  at  his  watch.  “ That  hack  ought  to  be  here 
pretty  soon.  I’m  glad  we  checked  the  trunks  from  the 
house ; gives  us  more  time.” 

“ Oh,  by  the  way,”  exclaimed  Laura,  all  at  once  open- 
ing her  satchel.  “ I had  a long  letter  from  Page  this 
morning,,  from  New  York.  Do  you  want  to  hear  what 
she  has  to  say?  I’ve  only  had  time  to  read  part  of  it 
myself.  It’s  the  first  one  I’ve  had  from  her  since  their 
marriage.” 


A Story  of  Chicago 


4*5 


He  lit  a cigar. 

“ Go  ahead,”  he  said,  settling  himself  on  the  box. 
“What  does  Mrs.  Court  have  to  say?” 

“ ‘ My  dearest  sister,’  ” began  Laura.  “ ‘ Here  we 
are,  Landry  and  I,  in  New  York  at  last.  Very  tired 
I and  mussed  after  the  ride  on  the  cars,  but  in  a darling 
little  hotel  where  the  proprietor  is  head  cook  and  every- 
body speaks  French.  I know  my  accent  is  improving, 
and  Landry  has  learned  any  quantity  of  phrases  already. 
We  are  reading  George  Sand  out  loud,  and  are  mak- 
' ing  up  the  longest  vocabulary.  To-night  we  are  going 
I to  a concert,  and  I’ve  found  out  that  there’s  a really  fine 
I course  of  lectures  to  be  given  soon  on  “ Literary  Ten- 
f dencies,”  or  something  like  that.  Quel  chance.  Landry 
I is  intensely  interested.  You’ve  no  idea  what  a deep 
mind  he  has,  Laura — a real  thinker. 

“ ‘ But  here’s  really  a big  piece  of  news.  We  may  not 
have  to  give  up  our  old  home  where  we  lived  when  we 
I first  came  to  Chicago.  Aunt  Wess’  wrote  the  other 
day  to  say  that,  if  you  were  willing,  she  would  rent  it, 
and  then  sublet  all  the  lower  floor  to  Landry  and  me, 
so  we  could  have  a real  house  over  our  heads  and  not 
the  under  side  of  the  floor  of  the  flat  overhead.  And 
she  IS  such  an  old  dear,  I know  we  could  all  get  along 
beautifully.  Write  me  about  this  as  soon  as  you  can. 
I know  you’ll  be  willing,  and  Aunt  Wess’  said  she’d 
agree  to  w"hatever  rent  you  suggested. 

“‘We  went  to  call  on  Mrs.  Cressler  day  before  yes- 
terday. She’s  been  here  nearly  a fortnight  by  now,  and 
is  living  with  a maiden  sister  of  hers  in  a very  beautiful 
house  fronting  Central  Park  (not  so  beautiful  as  our 
palace  on  North  Avenue.  Never,  never  will  I forget 
that  house).  She  will  probably  stay  here  now  always. 
She  says  the  very  sight  of  the  old  neighbourhoods  in 
Chicago  would  be  more  than  she  could  bear.  Poor  Mrs, 


4i6 


The  Pit 


Cressler!  How  fortunate  for  her  that  her  sister’ 

and  so  on,  and  so  on,”  broke  in  Laura,  hastily, 

“ Read  it,  read  it,”  said  Jadwin,  turning  sharply  away. 
“ Don’t  skip  a line.  I want  to  hear  every  word.” 

“ That’s  all  there  is  to  it,”  Laura  returned.  “ ‘ We’ll 
be  back,’  ” she  went  on,  turning  a page  of  the  letter, 
“ ‘ in  about  three  weeks,  and  Landry  will  take  up  his 
work  in  that  railroad  office.  No  more  speculating  for 
him,  he  says.  He  talks  of  Mr.  Jadwin  continually.  You 
never  saw  or  heard  of  such  devotion.  He  says  that  Mr. 
Jadwin  is  a genius,  the  greatest  financier  in  the  country, 
and  that  he  knows  he  could  have  won  if  they  all  hadn’t 
turned  against  him  that  day.  He  never  gets  tired  tell- 
ing me  that  Mr.  Jadwin  has  been  a father  to  him — the 

kindest,  biggest-hearted  man  he  ever  knew ’ ” 

Jadwin  pulled  his  mustache  rapidly. 

“ Pshaw,  pish,  nonsense — ^little  fool ! ” he  blustered. 

“ He  simply  worshipped  you  from  the  first,  Curtis,” 
commented  Laura.  “ Even  after  he  knew  I was  to 
marry  you.  He  never  once  was  jealous,  never  once 
would  listen  to  a word  against  you  from  any  one.” 
“Well — well,  what  else  does  Mrs.  Court  say?” 

“ ‘ I am  glad  to  hear,’  ” read  Laura,  “ ‘ ‘ that  ^Mr. 
Gretry  did  not  fail,  though  Landry  tells  me  he  must 
have  lost  a great  deal  of  money.  Landry  tells  me  that 
eighteen  brokers’  houses  failed  in  Chicago  the  day  after 
Mr.  Gretry  suspended.  Isabel  sent  us  a wedding  pres- 
ent— a lovely  medicine  chest  full  of  homoeopathic  medi- 
cines, little  pills  and  things,  you  know.  But,  as  Landry 
and  I are  never  sick  and  both  laugh  at  homoeopathy,  I 
declare  I don’t  know  just  what  we  will  do  with  it. 
Landry  is  as  careful  of  me  as  though  I were  a wax  doll. 
But  I do  wish  he  would  think  more  of  his  owm  health. 
He  never  ■will  wear  his  mackintosh  in  rainy  weather. 
I’ve  been  studying  his  tastes  so  carefully.  He  likes 


A Story  of  Chicago 


417 


French  light  opera  better  than  English,  and  bright 
colours  in  his  cravats,  and  he  simply  adores  stuffed 
tomatoes. 

“ ‘ We  both  send  our  love,  and  Landry  especially 
wants  to  be  remembered  to  Mr.  Jadwin.  I hope  this 
letter  will  come  in  time  for  us  to  wish  you  both  hon 
voyage  and  bon  mocks.  How  splendid  of  Mr.  Jadwin  to 
have  started  his  new  business  even  while  he  was  con- 
valescent ! Landry  says  he  knows  he  will  make  two  or 
three  more  fortunes  in  the  next  few  years. 

“ ‘ Good-by,  Laura,  dear.  Ever  your  loving  sister, 

“ ‘ Page  Court. 

“ ‘ P.  S. — I open  this  letter  again  to  tell  you  that  we 
met  Mr.  Corthell  on  the  street  yesterday.  He  sails  for 
Europe  to-day.’  ” 

“ Oh,”  said  Jadwin,  as  Laura  put  the  letter  quickly 
down,  “ Corthell — that  artist  chap.  By  the  way,  what- 
ever became  of  him  ? ” 

Laura  settled  a comb  in  the  back  of  her  hair. 

“ He  went  away,”  she  said.  “ You  remember — I told 
you — told  you  all  about  it.” 

She  would  have  turned  away  her  head,  but  he  laid 
a hand  upon  her  shoulder. 

“ I remember,”  he  answered,  looking  squarely  into 
her  eyes,  “ I remember  nothing — only  that  I have  been 
to  blame  for  everything.  I told  you  once — long  ago — 
that  I understood.  And  I understand  now,  old  girl, 
understand  as  I never  did  before.  I fancy  we  both 
have  been  living  according  to  a wrong  notion  of  things. 
'We  started  right  when  we  were  first  married,  but  I 
worked  away  from  it  somehow  and  pulled  you  along 
with  me.  But  we’ve  both  been  through  a great  big 
change,  honey,  a great  big  change,  and  we’re  starting 
all  over  again.  . . . Well,  there’s  the  carriage,  I 
guess.” 


27 


4i8 


The  Pit 


They  rose,  gathering  up  their  valises. 

“ Hoh!  ” said  Jadwin.  “ No  servants  now,  Laura,  to 
carry  our  things  down  for  us  and  open  the  door,  and 
it’s  a hack,  old  girl,  instead  of  the  victoria  or  coupe.” 

“ What  if  it  is  ? ” she  cried.  “ What  do  ‘ things,’  ser- 
vants, money,  and  all  amount  to  now  ? ” 

As  Jadwin  laid  his  hand  upon  the  knob  of  the  front 
door,  he  all  at  once  put  down  his  valise  and  put  his  arm 
about  his  wife.  She  caught  him  about  the  neck  and 
looked  deep  into  his  eyes  a long  moment.  And  then, 
•without  speaking,  they  kissed  each  other. 

In  the  outer  vestibule,  he  raised  the  umbrella  and  held 
it  over  her  head. 

“ Hold  it  a minute,  will  you,  Laura?  ” he  said. 

He  gave  it  into  her  hand  and  s^vung  the  door  of  the 
house  shut  behind  him.  The  noise  woke  a hollow  echo 
throughout  all  the  series  of  empty,  denuded  rooms. 
Jad-win  slipped  the  key  in  his  pocket. 

“ Come,”  he  said. 

They  stepped  out  from  the  vestibule.  It  -was  already 
dark.  The  rain  was  falling  in  gentle  slants  through  the 
odorous,  cool  air.  Across  the  street  in  the  park  the 
first  leaves  were  beginning  to  fall;  the  lake  lapped  and 
washed  quietly  against  the  stone  embankments  and  a 
belated  bicyclist  stole  past  across  the  asphalt,  wdth  the 
silent  flitting  of  a bat,  his  lamp  throwing  a fan  of  orange- 
coloured  haze  into  the  mist  of  rain. 

In  the  street  in  front  of  the  house  the  driver,  descend- 
ing from  the  box,  held  open  the  door  of  the  hack.  Jad- 
win handed  Laura  in,  gave  an  address  to  the  driver,  and 
got  in  himself,  slamming  the  door  after.  They  heard 
the  driver  mount  to  his  seat  and  speak  to  his  horses. 

“Well,”  said  Jadwin,  rubbing  the  fog  from  the  -wdn- 
dow  pane  of  the  door,  “ look  your  last  at  the  old  place, 
Laura.  You’ll  never  see  it  again.” 


121 


A Story  of  Chicago 

But  she  would  not  look. 

“ No,  no,”  she  said.  “ I’ll  look  at  you,  dearest,  at 
you,  and  our  future,  which  is  to  be  happier  than  any  years 
we  have  ever  known.” 

Jadwin  did  not  answer  other  than  by  taking  her  hand 
in  his,  and  in  silence  they  drove  through  the  city  towards 
the  train  that  was  to  carry  them  to  the  new  life.  A phase 
of  the  existences  of  each  was  closed  definitely.  The  great 
corner  was  a thing  of  the  past ; the  great  corner  with  the 
long  train  of  disasters  its  collapse  had  started.  The  great 
failure  had  precipitated  smaller  failures,  and  the  aggre- 
gate of  smaller  failures  had  pulled  down  one  business 
house  after  another.  For  weeks  afterward,  the  successive 
crashes  were  like  the  shock  and  reverberation  of  under- 
mined buildings  toppling  to  their  ruin.  An  important 
bank  had  suspended  payment,  and  hundreds  of  deposi- 
tors had  found  their  little  fortunes  swept  away.  The 
ramifications  of  the  catastrophe  were  unbelievable.  The 
whole  tone  of  financial  affairs  seemed  changed.  Money 
was  “ tight  ” again,  credit  was  withdrawn.  The  business 
world  began  to  speak  of  hard  times,  once  more. 

But  Laura  would  not  admit  her  husband  was  in  any 
way  to  blame.  He  had  suffered,  too.  She  repeated  to 
herself  his  words,  again  and  again : 

“ The  wheat  cornered  itself.  I simply  stood  between 
two  sets  of  circumstances.  The  wheat  cornered  me,  not 
I the  wheat.” 

And  all  those  millions  and  millions  of  bushels  of 
Wheat  were  gone  now.  The  Wheat  that  had  killed 
Cressler,  that  had  ingulfed  Jadwin’s  fortune  and  all 
but  unseated  reason  itself;  the  Wheat  that  had  inter- 
vened like  a great  torrent  to  drag  her  husband  from 
her  side  and  drown  him  in  the  roaring  vortices  of  the 
Pit,  had  passed  on,  resistless,  along  its  ordered  and 
predetermined  courses  from  West  to  East,  like  a vast 


The  Pit 


4-"o 

Titanic  flood,  had  passed,  leaving  Death  and  Ruin  in 
its  wake,  but  bearing  Life  and  Prosperity  to  the 
crowded  cities  and  centres  of  Europe. 

For  a moment,  vague,  dark  perplexities  assailed  her, 
questionings  as  to  the  elemental  forces,  the  forces  of  de- 
mand and  supply  that  ruled  the  world.  This  huge  resist- 
less Nourisher  of  the  Nations — why  was  it  that  it  could 
not  reach  the  People,  could  not  fulfil  its  destiny,  un- 
marred by  all  this  suffering,  unattended  by  all  this  mis- 
ery? 

She  did  not  know.  But  as  she  searched,  troubled  and 
disturbed  for  an  answer,  she  was  aware  of  a certain 
familiarity  in  the  neighbourhood  the  carriage  was  travers- 
ing. The  strange  sense  of  having  lived  through  this 
scene,  these  circumstances,  once  before,  took  hold  upon 
her. ' 

She  looked  out  quickly,  on  either  hand,  through  the 
blurred  glasses  of  the  carriage  doors.  Surely,  surely,  this 
locality  had  once  before  impressed  itself  upon  her  imagina- 
tion. She  turned  to  her  husband,  an  exclamation  upon 
her  lips ; but  Jadwin,  by  the  dim  light  of  the  carriage  lan- 
terns, was  studying  a railroad  folder. 

All  at  once,  intuitively,  Laura  turned  in  her  place,  and 
raising  the  flap  that  covered  the  little  window  at  the  back 
of  the  carriage,  looked  behind.  On  either  side  of  the  vista 
in  converging  lines  stretched  the  tall  office  buildings,  lights 
burning  in  a few  of  their  windows,  even  yet.  Over  the 
end  of  the  street  the  lead-coloured  sky  was  broken  by  a 
pale  faint  haze  of  light,  and  silhouetted  against  this  rose 
a sombre  mass,  unbroken  by  any  glimmer,  rearing  a black 
and  formidable  faqade  against  the  blur  of  the  sky  behind 
it. 

And  this  was  the  last  impression  of  the  part  of  her 
life  that  that  day  brought  to  a close  : the  tall  gray  office 
buildings,  the  murk  of  rain,  the  haze  of  light  in  the 


421 


A Story  of  Chicago 


heavens,  and  raised  against  it,  the  pile  of  the  Board  of 
Trade  building,  black,  monolithic,  crouching  on  its  foun- 
dations like  a monstrous  sphinx  with  blind  eyes,  silent, 
grave — crouching  there  without  a sound,  without  sig^ 
of  life,  under  the  night  and  the  drifting  veil  of  rain. 


THE  END. 


S 3 

O 


/ 


4 


Duke  University  Libraries 


[gri^V 


<iv*i  . 


D00481723P 


815.49 

N855P 


Norris 


813.49  Na5.5f^ 


:.Kto 


